


Rex Meus

by caulaty



Category: South Park
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 12:32:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 154,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1510559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caulaty/pseuds/caulaty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lands of Zaron are in war. A thief is captured by the elves and taken hostage to their castle hidden in the woods. When the prisoner falls in love with the High Elf, he must betray his own kind to be accepted on the elf's side. But is a thief even reliable? AU. K2/Style and other pairings. Based off the game "The Stick of Truth", but with LOTS of changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kenny and the fairyland

The skies had provided him a special blue for that morning. It was bright like they haven't seen in over a half century. Completely open and infinite, with no clouds in sight, shiny sun rays between the trees leafs, forming light drawings over the grass. The sun seemed to make the grass look more vibrant and healthy, oh so green and soft, little grass leafs being smooched under the weight of the prisoner's legs while he was dragged through the forest. It was a shame. Such a beautiful day didn't match with the blood dripping from the forehead all the way through the nose of the man who was being pulled by both arms, which arm being held by a guard. The left guard was taller than the right one. They weren't huge men like the prisoner was expecting. If he really thought about it, the expectation itself made no sense: elves were never burly. It simply wasn't a part of their nature.

The prisoner shut his swollen eye closed, bothered by the clarity. It almost didn't look like an eye anymore, just a fat purple bulge, the skin glowing reddish against the light of the sun, throbbing in pain. There was some pus forming under the eyelid. He could feel the taste of blood deep inside his mouth, coughing heavily, making the thick blood come out of his mouth and run slowly down his injured bottom lip. For such delicate creatures, elves sure knew how to beat the crap out of someone. A smirk appeared in the corner of the prisoner's lips as he remembered of the beautiful damage he made on the little guy who captured him. He so could have taken that tiny little elf, despite his freaky long limbs and even longer fingers. The prisoner wondered if they would have to amputate the finger he'd almost bitten off when the elf tried to hold him down. That bastard's nail was lengthy enough to cut his palate, but the human didn't care at the moment. The fight became very unfair when five other pointy-ears creatures heard the screaming and came to help their fellow.

His ears were filled with happiness when he heard the morning birds singing. It had been so long since he'd last heard the bird's chorus. He rarely approached the Grove area, where the birds built their nests and raised their babies. The prisoner sighed deeply, grunting over pain when he felt his ribs stretch by his lungs filling in with air. He couldn't help but thinking that, back in his land, any sorrow manifestation coming from a captured elf would cause immense satisfaction in the sadist human guards. They would laugh and mock their captive. But things were different here. None of the guards laughed at his pain, the smaller one just tighten his fingers around the man's arm and tugged him harder, feeling that his body was getting heavier. Soon he would faint. His vision was getting blurry under the locks of his messy hair. He just knew he would faint. But he made an effort to raise his chin, observing the serious expression on the taller elf's face. Now he seemed taller than ever.

"Hey, buddy." the prisoner called with a devilish smile.

The elf never looked down.

"Hey! I'm talking to you, big guy," he tried again, whistling between his teeth (or at lest trying to, since he could barely breathe at this point.) "Could you tell me if…" and suddenly he was gasping like he had no air in his lungs. "…If it'll take too long for us to get to your enchanted fairy land? I'm having kind of a hard time here. You know. Being… Dragged and all."

But there was nothing.

The prisoner looked the other way, thinking of trying to get answers from the other guard, who seemed to get pissed off easier. He really intended to open his mouth and speak. But before he knew what was going on, his head dropped forward and a harsh cough interrupted his plans. He frowned in disgust with the bloody taste in his mouth, coughing so hard at this point that a few birds flew away. Perfect, now he was scaring off the birds he loved. Just what he needed. He could feel the sun burning behind his head, making it even more uncomfortable when he started to get dizzy. Boy, this was going bad. He couldn't distinguish the ants on the grass anymore, everything went blurry and confusing right in front of his eyes.

Then it all got black.

Kenny had no idea how much time he had passed unconscious. When his senses slowly started to function, he got a tingling feeling in his toes and his face hit the ground so hard he almost passed out again. The smell of moist grass was intoxicating. The guards had dropped his body carelessly on the ground. Kenny didn't need to look up to realize there was a warrior with a bow above him, pulling the bow string to the limit, pointing the arrow directly to his head. The warrior's dirty combat boot was also ready to smash his brain if he had to, standing right in front of the prisoner's face. Oh well. He was just starting to suspect the elf's hospitality.

Slowly he turned his face so he could try to see something – anything – even though his sore eye didn't even open anymore. The eyelids of his good eye closed up really fast when the sun light touched his pupil. The light wasn't so bright under the protection of the trees, but damn that thing burned. Kenny didn't feel like losing both eyes. He saw at a glance the left soldier bending for the warrior in respect while he stepped away. Kenny assumed that the right soldier was doing the same.

"Oh, you guys are leaving already? So soon…" he grumbled to his new friends under the heavy breath, insure if they could hear him or not. His voice was rough and talking hurt like a motherfucker, his throat scratching at every word. "But the party is just…" and a deep breathe. "Getting started… Guys, tell him… How nicely I… Behaved."

No one answered. Just a pair of fast hands pulled his arms behind his back and pressed his wrists together, tying him up with a leather strap, locking his blood circulation. Then the person (a man, for sure) spoke to the warrior:

"What are the orders, sir? Should we take him to the king?"

"The king does not know that we have this man." The warrior, Stanley, answered. He made a sign with his head so the person grabbed the prisoner's weak floppy body, holding him up. "They have not returned from their trip yet. But we did send Pip to give him the news. In the meantime, take him to the tower."

"A… A tower? Really? Couldn't you think of anything more cliché?" The prisoner asked with a smirk. The first elves who fought him have just given up trying to rip the smile off that man's face. Not even an arrow, that was still aimed just a few inches from the prisoner's eye, could make the blond stop smiling. Like it was all a big joke for him. "Don't tell me you guys are gonna lock me up at a dungeon."

Once again, he was ignored.

* * *

Stanley Marshwalker was, like the elven people liked to call him – damn, like everyone in every kingdom called him – the hand of the king. He wasn't the help, he wasn't just a favorite, he wasn't like a loyal watchdog. You could even say that Stanley was the king's heart itself, every vain that pumped blue blood through the king's body, that's what Stanley Marsh had become over the years of faithful service. If you want to get technical, in hierarchic scales, he was just a warrior. But there wasn't a single elf in the kingdom that wasn't aware of the bond between this warrior and the highest creature of their existences. That made Stanley different from the other warriors. Special, somehow. It wasn't by means of this bond that he had conquered the army's command, of course. He deserved it. The post was trusted to him because Stan was, in fact, different. What the king saw in him, everyone else could see too. It was a lion's heart that barely fit into his chest, a sense of truth and justice like never seen before, a natural braveness, a blind passion for the battlefield and for his people, which he would defend with the point of his sword at any cost. He was willing to give his life away fighting for his cause anytime, like a warrior should be.

He was more than willing to give his life away for his king. He trusted him his whole world, his whole life, even his dog – Sparky was Stan's only family -, everything that mattered to him. Everything his heart had ever loved. Because the king was above all of this.

And that was all the warrior could think about when he held that light hand, kneeling in front of him, hugging his sword tightly against his chest with pride. Stan lowered his head, shutting his eyes close, feeling his muscles tremble like he was keeping something devastating inside of himself.

"Your Grace." he mumbled.

The king's hand felt so soft against the warrior's rude ones that squeezed it delicately between his fingers, bringing it to his mouth and planting a long kiss on the back of his hand. It was so pale compared to his own. Stan's skin was tanned due to working under the sun, away from the shadow of the huge trees. The king's slender fingers gently pulled away from the grab and involved the warrior's jaw, caressing the war scar on his cheek, then softly went down to his chin to pull his head up so their eyes would meet.

Kyle's eyes were so green that every time Stan looked directly into them he was more and more certain that they were made of emerald. They were spotted with a honey tone inside the iris, the pupils enlarged with lust from staring at his warrior from above, caressing his face ever so slightly, wandering his fingers through the stubborn black hair tufts that insisted on getting away from under his helmet. A warm smile sprouted on Kyle's rosy lips, like he was trying to offer some insurance to the warrior, even though he didn't understand about what. But he could still see the fear into those dark eyes that looked up for him with such devotion. God, how much he loved this man.

"You watch me like you were seeing some wonderful forest creature."

"That's what you are, your Grace."

"Oh, Stanley…" he whispered almost like music. Like a quiet singing bird. "You are so kind to me."

In his chest, Stan knew that was true. That's what all of them were exactly, wonderful forest creatures living in the woods of the Grove. But the king was the only one who had those rousing ginger curls contrasting with the wooden crown on top of his had, too big to fit him because it belonged to his father first. Kyle was the only one who walked like he was floating, the only one who touched every elf like they were his brothers and sisters. He was the only one who had the bird-like voice. His cheekbones were so high made it look like he was always smiling. And his fire… That was the biggest difference in the warrior's eyes. The king had a fire that burned deep inside of him. The fire that made him so respected, despite being so petty. There was no elf in the whole kingdom of the Grove that doubted his fire, his capacity to lead, his authority.

Kyle wasn't just a respected king. He was a beloved king. So beloved by his people and his loyal warrior who was always holding his sword's hilt on guard beside the king's throne.

"Stand up." He ordered with a simple gesture, giving his back to Stan and walking across the salon, aware that the warrior would follow him. "And tell me what happened, yes?"

Stanley sheathed his sword and traipsed a few steps behind his king, licking his lips.

"We captured the prisoner this morning. We suspect he's a thief. We held a bag full of… Apples."

The king stopped walking. He turned his face to the side, just enough so Stan could see his profile, the thin line of his nose of Hebrew traits, the delicate line of his long neck contrasting with the sunshine that entered through the grand window. And a slight frown on his forehead, manifesting his confusion.

"He stole food?"

There was hesitation on the warrior's voice.

"Yes, your Grace."

"Pip informed me that you captured a man from the kingdom of Kupa Keep. Not that you had tied and locked a starving man."

Now he was turning directly to Stan, the crown pending gracefully on the side of his head, among the curls of hair that looked almost golden in the sun light. His voice was calm, but genuinely bothered.

"We suspect he is both, your Grace."

The hand that Stanley had kissed now ran up the redhead's forehead, his fingers gently smoothing the wrinkles of his frown while he thought about it. Once again he turned his back on his server, running his fingers down his nape.

"Come along with me to the tower, Stanley, please." The king said casually, reaching out his hand so the warrior would walk by his side.

And he, as always, was more than pleased to follow the orders that came disguised as a request.


	2. The chamber tales

Kenny was lying down when he heard the creak of the exaggeratedly huge door. He couldn't understand why such small creatures like elves would need such a big door. Alright, so maybe the elves weren't all that small, but they certainly looked smaller when everything they built seemed to be bigger than it had to. Delusions of grandeur, Kenny would call it. He ran his tongue over his front teeth, stretching his neck so he could see if anyone showed up in front of his lovely cell. It was, indeed, lovely. It wasn't a dark dusty place like he was expecting. Oh no, it was large and clean with stone walls that almost made it look elegant somehow. "Jesus, even their dungeons are nice", Kenny thought to himself. And there was a very high window, but he still could look through it if he stood over the bed. It was a beautiful sight, actually; green hills and little paths that cut through the trees. He could also see elves passing all day long carrying baskets above their heads.

The bed was more of a wooden board lifted by two rusty chains, rather than an actual bed. It was hard to balance on top of it for too long, not to mention the risk that the thing collapsed under his weight. Kenny preferred to lie down on the cold floor, curled up into fetal position and facing the wall. He had found a little piece of coal dropped on the floor, so small he could barely hold it between his fingers. It was a gift from the former prisoner, perhaps. He was now using the coal to scribble on the wall, keeping his face really close, focused on drawing a little peasant house. Very much alike the one he grew up in.

Well, not "very much alike". He wasn't that good at drawing and his work material wasn't the best either.

The tower's wooden floorboards creaked when someone walked over it. Footsteps approached. Kenny put the coal in his pocket, letting out a moan of pain when he felt his arms muscles twitching inside his flesh. Lifting his torso was the hardest part. Using both hands as support, he managed to sit up, resting his body against the uneven stone wall, groaning in relief. Damn, he was tired. The sun had already set and the cell was even darker now. He had no idea how many hours had passed, but it was enough time for his blood to dry under his clothes and the bitter taste in his mouth had gotten substantially worse. There was probably a loose tooth rotting deep inside. He didn't care much about that right now.

Kenny coughed. Then waited.

His mouth, that until now was a straight line showing nuisance over the physical discomfort, turned into a big smile when he saw the two figures enter the room. The floorboards creaked louder now into his ears. Kenny recognized one of them just from the boots, even before he could see the man's countenance. It was the warrior that pointed an arrow to his face. The warrior was still carrying the bow on his back. Kenny didn't like that guy. The other one… He was covered by a red mantle with golden tracings all over it. Red and golden also gleamed in the locks of his hair. And there was a crown. A wooden crown. Kenny smirked, leaning his torso slightly forward, mimicking a reverence.

"Well, if it isn't your Highness in flesh and bone. The rumors do you no justice. You don't look like a girl as much as they say."

As soon as the words came out of Kenny's mouth, Stan had already advanced with one of his hands in the bag of arrows hanging on his back, but Kyle's hand intervened, stopping the warrior with a gentle touch on his chest. The king didn't face Stan while he did it. Never took his eyes off the bloody man sitting on the floor behind the cell bars. The prisoner had his hand resting on top of his knee, one of the legs bent, his head crooked to the side. Kyle frowned to him.

Stan's hand slowly drew out the arrow, then carefully left his arm hang at the side of his body, holding the arrow steady between his fingers. And just waited, looking like watchdog, his chin lifted up and a severe expression on his face.

The king started to approach the iron bars.

"And who says that?"

"My people do."

There was no hesitation in the blonde's voice, despite the fact that his throat was sore and scratchy, making his words sound husky. He felt profoundly demoralized by that.

To his surprise – even thought he didn't show it – a smile emerged on the king's staid expression. His long fingers (like every elf seemed to have) wrapped around the cold metal bar in a delicate touch. Stan stepped forward. He looked troubled with the proximity between the king and the prisoner, notwithstanding the captured man was sitting on the floor across the cell and didn't show any intention of getting up soon. Maybe he couldn't get up anymore.

"What is your name?"

"Kenneth."

Again, the elf smiled, like he thought it was a funny name.

"Tell me, Kenneth. Were my apples tasty enough for you?"

"Oh, I didn't have the time to eat them, Your Highness. You see, before I had the pleasure, your army of little things attacked me, beat the shit out of me and now I'm here."

"I see. Are you hungry?"

Kenny narrowed his eyes. This king right in front of him sounded and looked so peaceful that he would never believe this little redheaded devil was the reason why he was locked behind bars with his face throbbing in pain and possibly some fractured bones. But he couldn't help but smile when he started to understand what kind of sick game he was being proposed to. Or at least he thought he understood.

Stanley, now just a few steps behind Kyle, watched everything with much more caution and distrust, just waiting for the right moment to arm that arrow again.

"Are you always this kind to the man you send to torture?"

"Oh, please, nobody tortured you. But we sure can, since you want it so badly." The voice came from behind the king, rougher and angrier than his. Stanley squeezed the arrow into his fist so tight that he could have broken it in half.

The king ignored him.

"Kenneth… Let me tell you something. You are going to tell me what you were doing on my lands. This is not a request and it is not an order either. It's a fact. You can tell me now, while you're still in one piece, or…" his slender fingers slid through the iron bar so gently, in an almost erotic way, licking his lips at the same time. "Or you can talk to my elves that won't even hesitate before getting their hands dirty."

"Listen, princess."

In a blink of an eye, the arrow was armed and Stan pulled the bowstring to the max, aiming between the bars, putting himself right beside the king. He let out an irritated gasp while the rest of his body froze in a threatening position.

"I'll have no trouble putting a hole on your skull if you don't quit being funny."

For a few moments, that was enough for the prisoner to shut himself up with a mocking laugh, looking away and stroking his forehead. He was shivering, but dirty sweat kept dripping down his face. Maybe it was some damn infection that was now causing a fever.

The warrior didn't retreat until the king's hand let go of the bar to slowly caress Stan's arm in a comforting gesture.

"Lower the arrow, Stanley."

He faltered for a moment, turning his face to Kyle full of doubt, meeting an unconditional certainty into the king's green eyes. So green… That they almost made Stan forget he was holding a weapon. With a calm sigh, he lowered the bow, glaring to the prisoner the whole time.

"Listen to me." Kyle said to his warrior, taking both hands to his face so Stan would look back at him, decreasing the distance between their bodies. "Wait for me outside, would you?"

"What?! No, I will not-"

"Stanley."

"Kyle!"

The dark haired man pressed his lips together like he had just said something unholy after spitting out the king's name with such intimacy. He waited for a slap across the face, some sort of punishment, perhaps just a disgusted stare from Kyle. Instead, he felt the soft touch of the hand on his face, sliding through his cheek, the thumb slowly playing near Stan's lips. He shut his eyes closed so tightly, almost painfully, in ecstasy with the king's touch, forgetting how to breathe for a few seconds.

"Nothing will happen to me."

"This man… He bit off one of our guard's fingers. He ripped a man's finger off with his own teeth, Your Grace." Stanley whispered desperately close to Kyle's face, keeping his eyes closed. "He is an animal. You don't know what he-"

'Oh, good, so they did have to amputate', Kenny thought with a smile, proud of himself.

"You would never let anything happen to me. Would you?" Kyle muttered, holding the warrior's head between both of his hands, bringing his face close enough so that their foreheads would touch, brushing his nose against Stan's.

"I won't be here if…"

"You'll know if I need you. I know you will."

Stan did not dare to touch him.

"Aaawn. How sweet. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little." The man inside the cell said with a satire face, laughing by himself.

Stan offered him a glance before swallowing dry and stepping back, bowing before Kyle, who waved with his head and watched as the warrior left the room reluctantly. He kept assuring Stan with his eyes until the warrior closed the heavy door behind him.

The king kept facing the door for a few instants, further from the bars than he was before. Maybe he was afraid now that his protective shield was gone, like Kenny would suddenly rise up from the ground, grab him through the bars and choke him with his bare hands or something like that. Well, it's not like the idea didn't sound appealing, Kenny wouldn't lie. Involve that long little neck between his hands and bring him closer, watch carefully while that whole stance of authority melted right before his eyes. But Kenny wasn't that dumb.

"So," The blonde said casually, stretching his legs. "I don't know what sort of perversions you have in mind, since you're craving so hard to be alone with me, princess, but… Kenny Jr. doesn't work under pressure. Especially when it hurts for me to even blink. I'm sorry to disappoint you."

"'Kenny'? Is that how they call you back there in Kupa Keep?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Hmm." The king put his hands behind his back and started to walk around the chamber, facing down. "It's an awful long way to travel just for some delightful apples, don't you think?"

"Yeah, what can I say? They are quite famous. It's a shame that I couldn't taste them."

"You won't be lucky enough to taste dog food if you don't cooperate with me. You know that, don't you, Kenny?"

The prisoner lifted his chin; his dark blond hair fell over his shoulders. His hair was much longer than he would normally prefer, but between running away from elves and getting caught, there had been no time those past few weeks to look for razor and give the damn thing a nice cut.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Kenny was growing impatient. He laid a hand on the wall and the other one on his knee so he could lift his body from the floor. The king peered while the blond stood up and approached the cell bars, staggering like a drunken man because his senses were still distorted. Damn those elves. None of that was funny anymore. He held on to the iron bars with all his strength, shaking his head to remove hair strands from his face, piercing Kyle with those blue – ridiculously blue – eyes until he was a little intimidated.

Not that the king let it show.

"Do you think I'm gonna lose my eye, princess?"

Kyle stared at him for a while, stepping forward and watching him blankly.

"What?" He asked confused, slightly annoyed.

"My eye." Kenny pointed with his forefinger. "It's pretty bad, isn't it? I was wondering if I would look cool with an eyepatch once it's gone. What do you think?"

The red mantle flew dramatically when the king took heavy steps towards the cell, sticking his hand between the bars to grab and pull a dirty lock of blond hair, forcing the prisoner to bring his head down to the level of the king's eyes. Only when Kenny stood up he had realized how small Kyle was. This figure… This highest power figure among the elves was actually smaller than the average male elf. Kenny smiled, incredibly glad to see him the elf so irritated.

"Listen to me. I have much more important things to do than deal with a human worm like you. You don't have to worry about an eyepatch because you won't even have a fucking face if you continue to annoy me." He whispered quickly between his teeth, very close to Kenny's face before spitting in his eye and letting go of his hair. "I'll ask you only once: what did they send you for? Who are you, what is your last name?"

The blond passed two fingers over his eye to clean up the spit, even though his fingers were much dirtier than the king's saliva. He let out thoughtful sound as he observed the spit on his fingers, frowning. He once again faced the king who hadn't pulled away. He wasn't smiling, but seemed to consider his options. Kyle waited.

"I thought you elves would have some kind of skilled people just to deal with us, the human worms. I mean… Where I come from, the king would never go all the way down to the dungeon just to speak to an elf, unless it was to watch you getting tortured. He finds that amusing."

Kyle's face twitched in disgust. Kenny didn't laugh this time.

"Well, I give Cartman's men a special treatment. That doesn't mean that I don't have a whole line up of elves dying to rip your fingernails off for information, but I usually expect that things don't get at such point."

The prisoner's filthy hand passed through the bars and met the king's soft cheek, smoothing it for a second before Kyle grabbed his wrist with much more strength that Kenny would have expected from him. But he didn't pull his hand back yet, and for a few seconds, both men just stared at each other, standing still.

"Does that mean you want to protect me? That's so cute. Your boyfriend will be so jealous."

With an exhausted sigh, Kyle pulled the man's hand away gently and gave Kenny his back, stepping away from him. The floorboards once again creaked under his weight as the king withdrew.

"McCormick."

The king stopped.

He turned his neck only, looking down.

"What did you just say?"

"My name. It's Kenneth McCormick."

"As in…" Slowly he turned his face to the prisoner, then the rest of his body, but not entirely. His face was slightly confused. "As in Lady McCormick?"

Kenny laughed and shrugged, correcting him:

"Princess McCormick, in fact."

"Oh, right. It's funny. Take off the nice clothes, cover us in filth and we'll look nothing like royalty. But I…" The king grumbled, turning his back to the blond again and took one hand right above the head to straighten his crooked crown. "I should have known. You have your sister's eyes."

And with that, Kyle left the room.


	3. Ze Mole, ze swindler and ze princess

Christophe slowly put on his black gloves, like he wanted to enjoy every second of it. A cigarette burned on the corner of his lips and he didn't seem to care much about the ashes falling over the table ahead of him. A big cloud of smoke filled the tiny room. Kenny was sitting on a chair across the table with his hands firmly tied behind his back, carefully watching the other man. He bit his bottom lip in anticipation, bothered by how silent the room was. It was just the two of them and Christophe hadn't said a word since he got there. Maybe he had thought too soon that every corner of the elves' kingdom was nice and neat. The dark little room they were in could be many things, but "nice" was definitely not one of them. It smelled like smoke and slime (there was some growing on the walls, apparently) and it was fucking awful. It was so hot in there that Kenny was considering actually asking the man to rip his shirt off.

But perhaps that wasn't such a smart idea.

Christophe was a huge contradiction to the notion that all elves were delicate androgynous gentle little creatures. In fact, all those adjectives could be used to describe everything that Christophe wasn't. The guy was a man. A dirty, sweaty, rude man. He had one of his legs supported by the chair on his side of the table, wearing a heavy leather boot on his feet. His chest, on the other hand, was barely covered by a moss green tank top, so old and beat-up that fell completely loose over his wet body. It exposed his defined muscles and his skin, so white that it looked like the man hadn't seen a ray of sunshine in decades. Kenny's gaze went down to Christophe's belt that held all kinds of sharp objects.

"Non, don't worry." The Mole said when saw the blonde staring at his weapons, taking the cigarette off his mouth. "Ze king 'as some sort of pacifist philosophy 'zat delimits how much fun I can 'ave with you."

Kenny smiled.

"You have a funny accent. Where are you from?"

"Leave ze questions to me, blondie, How about 'zat?"

Finally, the brunette turned his chair around to sit on it backwards, with his legs open, taking a deep drag on his cigarette one more time before resting his arms on the chair's backrest. He puffed the smoke right at the prisoner's direction, who coughed and frowned, turning his head to the side.

"Dude, how many years has it been since you last showered?" Kenny asked with a laugh, grimacing. "You smell like shit."

"At least we 'ave something in common now, don't we?" Christophe answered with a smirk that the blonde wasn't expecting, suddenly liking this guy a lot more. "From my understanding, you and ze princess share ze same last name, is 'zat correct?"

"We are children of the same shitty parents, there's not much to it."

"Ze princess has no brother. Do you really expect me to believe 'zat a noble would be sent on a mission? Ze human royalty does nothing besides getting fat and telling people what to do."

"That's accurate. Yeah, well, we don't have the healthiest family relationship. Look, fellow, I'm with you here. I would be disgusted by humans too if I was an elf. With a lazy useless fatass excuse of a king like Cartman representing our race, it's hard to expect anything else. But I don't work for him. I don't serve the palace. Just because my slutty sister sold herself to the luxurious bloody monarchy's life, doesn't mean I'm like her. I'm a stroller, dude. I don't have a bed to sleep on. I was hungry and those apples were there. Not all humans are trash, you know?"

"Is 'zat so?"

Christophe's dark eyes didn't blink even once while he was listening to Kenny's speech. As soon as it was over, the brunette took the cigarette off his mouth to smash the butt against the wooden table, putting it out. Then, he took both of his hands to the helmet on his head (which, the blonde noted, was nothing like the warrior's or the guard's helmets), taking it off to reveal greasy brown hair and… Ears just like Kenny's.

"Motherfucker. You're not an elf." Kenny whispered, more to himself than to the other man. "Wow. Do they know?"

The answer came with a debauchery laugh. It was surprising that the guy actually knew how to laugh.

"Of course 'zey know! Are you nuts?" He said, putting the helmet on the table. "So don't think, Mr. McCormick, 'zat my problem with you 'as anything to do with race. My problem with you is due to 'ze fact 'zat you are a low-down little liar." Christophe's filthy hand bashed against the wood and he leaned his torso towards Kenny. "What were you after? What does your king want?! Did you come 'ere to cut Kyle's throat in his sleep?"

Kenny didn't miss how this man referred to the High Elf by the name so easily, like he wouldn't even accept calling the king by anything else. It was so different from that warrior, the one who accompanied Kyle to the chamber. That man looked so ashamed to pronounce "Kyle", despite all the intimacy between the two of them. It made Kenny wonder what kind of relationship Christophe had with the king.

"No, Jesus fuck! I didn't even mean to get close to the castles."

The hand resting over the table went right to Kenny's shirt collar, grabbing it tightly and pulling the blond towards him until their faces were dangerously close.

"Why would a stroller wander around so closely to ze enemy's kingdom? Even if you were living under a rock, you fucking knew about ze war!"

"Oh, and who the hell are you to say anything? What were you doing when you first came here? You also got here somehow, now you're freaking working for them. Don't say it like it's an absurd for people to get close to the elves."

"Don't make me punch you, blondie. Your face is a mess already. Give me a better answer and don't fucking play dumb with me."

"I told you, man. I don't have a home. I hadn't eaten for three days, I knew the elves had apple orchards…" His voice trembled under a heavy breath, being replaced by a horrible cough that made Kenny shut his eyes close and lower his face. "If you… If you intend to kill me, damn, just do it. 'Cause I have no good information for you. I can't tell you what I don't know. And I guarantee… No one in the kingdom of Kupa Keep will miss me, not even my sister. She doesn't know I'm alive. C'mon, you're a smart guy. Why do you think none of you knew the princess had a brother?"

Christophe let go of Kenny's threadbare shirt and pulled away. The look on his face was completely unreadable. The man got up from the chair, pinching the bridge of his nose while he went around the table and stepped behind the tied man, tilting so that his lips got closer to the blonde's ear. His breathe was hot and heavy, giving Kenny the impression that behind him stood not a human, but a wild animal. Dirty fingers grabbed a lock of blond hair and pulled Kenny's head back harshly, yanking a grunt of pain out of him. He could also feel a sharp blade against the thin skin of his throat, not pushing deep enough to harm him, but getting the message across quite well.

"Let's say I'm buying your little story, oui? You would have abdicated a very luxurious life to starve in the woods. Why did you leave your kingdom?"

Breathing was getting hard. Kenny's chest went up and down quickly, disturbing puffy noises came out of his open bruised lips.

"Cartman is a tyrant piece of shit! Starving is much better than living under his conditions, I'll tell you that." He took a deep breath. "Hey… Do you think you could cut my hair with your little knife?"

"And which conditions would those be?"

"Look, I'd hate for him to have the stick just as much as you would. The throne wasn't even meant to be his. He'd burn down whole villages and cut little children's heads off if it'd get him what he wants. He's a selfish son of a whore. I mean literally." The words came out shivery, but Kenny couldn't help it. He could feel the man's gaze burning on his skin, aware that Christophe was watching every single blink of his, every breath he took. It was pretty much obvious to Kenny that this guy was trained (very well trained, by the way) to tell if he was lying. So he decided to warm things up with a smile. "But you should know all this, since you're here serving the Elf Queen now."

The grip of Christophe's hand on his hair got even tighter, forcing Kenny's head back against his chest in anger. The blade pressed harder against his neck too.

"You don't want to see me angry, blondie. You really don't."

It was easy to feel in Christophe's hands the burning desire to break that little ignorant blonde's neck and get it over with. But he wouldn't. He was a man with a job. So he let go of Kenny abruptly, pushing him forward so he that the blonde hit his nose against the table's hard surface. This time Kenny held the sore moan down his throat, tired of giving Christophe the satisfaction of his pain.

Kenny lifted his head slowly, wheezing. He could see a little better with his injured eye, at least better than yesterday, even though he couldn't open it entirely. It was enough to see the Mole picking up his helmet and walking to the door, tucking his knife back in the pocket of his unclean brown pants. He knocked the door three times and whistled. Almost immediately, two elves entered the room. They were dressed like the guards who attacked Kenny, but he didn't recognize either one of them. Turning his face to the prisoner, Christophe spitted on the ground and told the guards:

"I'm done with him for today. Take him back."

…

The Mole walked down the long corridor that circulated the outside of the castle, passing by the stone arches raised by columns, taking a peek at the beautiful garden that felt so relaxing during the night. He liked it so much better this way, with no one around. The back of his hand ran over his forehead to wipe off the sweat. Damn, that room was hot as hell. A few walking elves wished him good night, going on the opposite direction for a night saunter, some of them holding beautiful china cups, sipping steamy tea before they went to their quarters. But the Mole ignored them all. It was late at night. He speeded up his pace, his heavy boots making loud noises when hurried up the spiral staircase, heading to the king's room.

He followed through the long hallway illuminated only by a few wall torches. The hall was decorated with a nice yellow carpet that Christophe was dirtying with his boots. The door to the king's room was the last one down the hallway. He gave it three strong knocks, remembering when Kyle said that could tell when it was him just by the way he knocked. Who opened the door, however, was Stan. Christophe greeted him leaning his torso a little bit forward.

"Stanley."

"Mole. Is the interrogatory over already?"

The warrior wore nothing but underpants and a sheer white shirt with all the buttons undone, exposing his hairless chest and abdomen. He didn't have his helmet on, showing his messy dark hair that the Mole had seen only a couple of times in his life. But Christophe paid no attention to any of that. On a few seconds, Kyle showed up behind Stan and ran his hand over the man's back, signing with his head that Stanley could go inside now, which the warrior immediately obeyed. The king smiled, thanked him and stepped outside the room, closing the door behind him. He wasn't wearing his red mantle nor his crown, but still wore the white long sleeve shirt with art nouveau golden details all over it and had a little cord tied around his waist. It was exactly what he wore under the mantle earlier that day. Christophe bent down appropriately for him, took his helmet off and held it in front of his chest while he took the king's hand on his own to bring it to his lips and kiss it gently.

"Bonne nuit, Kyle."

"Good lord, how French can you be?" Kyle whispered with a smile as the man straightened his torso. "What did you find out?"

"Ze man stills says he's ze princess brother. He told me 'zat he denied ze royalty because he disagrees with ze king's methods. How did he put it... Oh oui. "Ze king is a tyrant piece of sheet". He also claims 'zat his sister doesn't even know he's alive and 'zat he's a starving stroller who just wanted to eat some nice apples. He claims to 'ave no current connections to the kingdom of Kupa Keep whatsoever."

The king's expression went earnest while he paid careful attention to the Mole's report, bringing his index finger to his lips, considering the situation. Lastly, he sighed and asked:

"Well, do you believe him?"

"Ze man is a swindler, Kyle, 'zere is no doubt about it." The Mole said, letting out something very similar to a laugh (although Kyle had never seen him actually laughing) as he pulled a cigarette out of his pocket. "Now, if he's ze king's swindler, I'm not so sure. He may be telling ze truth."

"Don't smoke in here."

Christophe licked his lips and shoved the cigarette back in his pocket, showing no opposition.

"Ze guards said he was pretty dirty already when he was found, oui? He could easily pass for a homeless man. However… 'Zere is no guarantee 'zat he didn't soil himself on purpose. I wouldn't let him go if I were you, Kyle."

"The thought didn't even cross my mind, believe me."

"I figured. But I know your fondly stupid good heart well enough, so it didn't hurt to warn you. You see, Kyle, if you allowed me to use more effective tactics…" Christophe tried to get closer, taking his hand off his pocket to raise it towards the king's face, but Kyle immediately shook his head.

"No. You're not going to torture him. Especially now, giving the possibility that he's an innocent man. Be honest with me, Mole. Do you think he's lying?"

The Mole pressed his lips together in consideration and narrowed his eyes, studying the king's face, taking a moment to think about the whole talk before giving him a verdict. His hand stood still on air, his fingers slightly curved close to Kyle's face. The king couldn't help but look for traces of blood on Christophe's fingernails, but there wasn't any. At last, Christophe sighed heavily and adjusted his helmet on top of his head.

"He is a very persuasive man, your highness. No, I don't think he's lying. But I'll 'ave to talk to him again, you know, give it a few days to see if he'll slip in the details of his own story. For now, I don't think we're in danger."

Kyle nodded, and then stood on tiptoe, taking one of his hands to grab The Mole's shoulder and plant a long kiss on his cheek.

"Thank you, Mole. Have a good night."

Kyle couldn't see right at the darkness of the hallway, but he could swear he saw Christophe blush a little bit.

…

Cartman wasn't very fond of sunny days. Since he was a child, while all the other children loved to play out in the sun, running around the sunflower fields, the chubby little boy – who as nothing less than obese at the time – would rather hide underground, inside the wine cellars of his mother's boyfriend's restaurant. Eric remembered him as a kind huge black man who was usually called by the name of "Chef". Cartman liked him just as much as he liked sunny days. Nevertheless, Chef was the closest thing he's ever had to a father figure, since his mother worked as a cabaret dancer and slept with pretty much every one of her clients. The little boy never knew who his real father was. So, Chef would let him hide in the restaurant and play with the rats, because little Eric never had too many friends. It was such a shame that both Chef and his mother had their heads cut off before they could see him become the state's Monarch.

He was very fond of rats, oh yes. Maybe this was his first – and only – real connection to the princess McCormick: the fact that everywhere the girl went, she took that little rodent with her, giving it love and affection, snuggling it and everything. It was kind of gross. Cartman would never actually say out loud that he liked her better because of the rat.

He could already hear the animal's little squeak when the salon doors were open and the princess' high heels click-clack filled the wide room, getting closer. Cartman stood still before the large window with his hands on his back, warmed by the sunshine that came through the glazing. He'd been observing the courtyard from up there, one of his warriors was sitting down the edge of the big fountain with monumental fish statues spouting water. The warrior was flirting with one of the courtesans. The king's jaw tightened in disapproval and he shook his head slightly. The princess' voice interrupted his thoughts:

"Do you have any news about him?"

"About who?" Eric asked absently, turning around to look at her like he had only right now realized she was standing there.

The princess rolled her eyes and walked towards the coral couch to sit down, dropping little Lemmiwinks on her lap so the mouse could freely wander around her puffy dress. It was a beautiful gown, black lace contrasting with the shining violet material underneath. The princess' golden braiding fell down each of her shoulders like two waterfalls and her silver tiara glistened on her head, meeting the sunlight.

"I don't like this, Cartman. I don't like it at all."

"Oh. Oh, I am so sorry, princess. I had no ideia that the king had to think about what you'd like before protecting his own kingdom and the life of everyone who lives in it. What would you prefer? That we let those little pixies, those insidious fucking leprechauns have the Stick? Is that want you want, Princess McCormick?"

"Well, you didn't have to send my brother. You know very well that I would never allow it if you hadn't acted behind my back."

"I don't need your permission to do shit. I'm the fucking king!"

That was Cartman's favorite sentence, right there. The princess had no idea how many times she'd heard him say 'I'm the fucking king' since the riots and the seizure of power. She faced Eric with genuine contempt, her light blue eyes shining in anger and her ruddy lips trembling as she tried to swallow her words. It was Cartman who broke the gaze, walking across the salon. He went around the big while piano in the middle of the room, massaging his temples, looking thoughtful. He let out one of his heavy grunts that his subordinates made fun of him for, imitating it when he wasn't looking. The princess saw them doing it a couple of times, but, instead of rebuking them, she just laughed and went on her way.

"Don't you care at all? He was the only kid who would play with you, the only one who gave you the slightest bit of attention. He didn't care that you were fat and bossy. You guys are friends since you were children, how could you just give him away to the enemy like this?"

Cartman's fist collided firmly against the carved wood table, shaking the porcelain vase on top of it with gardenias inside, spilling some water.

"Don't talk about what you don't understand, princess. Kenny is more artful than your stinky little rat there, he's cunning and elusive. And smart as shit. Yes, he's a fucking rebel. Yes, I feel like smashing his face on the ground pretty much all the time." He hit his fist against his own palm this time, illustrating it. "But it doesn't matter because he gets the job done. Every time. That is why I sent him. Just fucking let the man do his job."

She opened her lips to protest, raising a manicured finger, but the king didn't allow her to speak.

"He's anonymous. Nobody knows his face, since he refused all the royal denominations after the rebellion. He never stepped on a battle field, the elves don't know who the fuck he is. That little fag Kyle won't have a clue who he's dealing with. Kenny will bring the Stick back to its rightful place and soon all this shit will be over. I have a special place over my bed for Kyle's head as a trophy."

The princess didn't respond. She looked down to the little creature that was trying to nibble her dress' lace and smiled to it, taking her finger to caress Lemmiwinks' tiny head, watching how the mouse closed its eyes and rubbed its face against her digit. Cartman snorted and covered his head with his blue hooded cape.

"Those elves will fall for your brother's bullshit like the dumb little girls they are."

"What's wrong with being a girl?" She asked a little offended, frowning.

"Hell, I wouldn't know." The king said with a noisy laugh, walking to the door with no more intention to continue the conversation. "But then again… Neither would you."

Cartman slammed the doors on his way out. The princess took a deep breath and then leaned closer to Lemmiwinks, whispering to her pet in a sweet voice:

"Our king may be a big guy, but I'm afraid his brains are smaller than the elves. What do you think, Lemmiwinks?"


	4. Bath time stories

Kenny hardly ever dreamed, or at least his dreams here never clear enough that he could remember them afterwards. At most, he would recall a few disconnected images as soon as he woke up screaming and sweaty in the middle of the night, but it was always too confusing, just a storm of disturbing scenes. It had been like this his whole life. But something peculiar happened. It may have been because of the environment, that hostile cell causing hallucinations. It may have been because he wasn't sleeping as much as fainting by this point. He hadn't eaten anything in only God knows how long. Despite the little window giving him some basic notion of day and night, time seemed to stretch to the breaking point, like a string, and now he had lost the count of days. The elves had only given him two plates of food since they captured him, and both meals looked like they'd already been chewed and digested. It was awful. But he ate with both hands, sticking his face into the ceramic plate like some sort of animal, because he was so fucking hungry. His stomach ached so much when he thought about it; it had been a long time since his last meal. In fact, it had been a long time since anyone showed up at his cell for anything. With exception of the guards outside the door, he hadn't seen (much less spoken to) another person for days; which could really drive someone crazy.

The physical weakness and mind exhaustion confused him in such ways that he couldn't exactly tell whether he was dreaming, hallucinating or if any of that was actually happening. Lying down on the ground in fetal position and shivering, Kenny saw the High Elf opening the gates of his cell and walking in his direction, carrying a plate and a bowl full of water. Well, it couldn't be real, no, because Kenny could see this glow of yellow light emanating from the elf while everything around them seemed cloudy and fuzzy. Kyle was freaking shining. The man tried to open his lips and say something, but all he could let out was a guttural grunt of pain. The king keeled beside him. The blond was almost disappointed with his own unconscious for setting such a predictable scene, noticing that the king wore nothing but a white sleepwear, like some angel costume, how cliché is that? Kyle also didn't have his crown on.

None of that mattered when Kyle's arm gently wrapped around his neck and supported his head, raising it up a little bit, taking the hand of his involving arm to caress Kenny's forehead, like a mother checking her child's temperature. With his other hand, he took the bowl of water to the prisoner's lips, who moaned in relief to the taste of that precious liquid pouring down his throat. It didn't matter that it wasn't real; he kept swallowing the water in a noisy and flustered way, feeling some of it running down his chin and neck. It felt amazing. It was only when Kenny's dirty trembling hand looked for Kyle's holding the bowl, feeling Kyle's skin on his, that the blond finally realized. And it was so obvious. At that moment, with Kyle's soft hand touching his grubby skin, raising his ill body from the ground so tenderly, hypnotizing him with those huge emerald green eyes, it was so damn obvious.

Everything went crystal clear to him. Kenny could finally understand why Stanley looked at the king with the admiration of a loyal dog that would give his life for his owner without hesitating, with pure genuine love and nothing else. He could also understand why Christophe, that heartless bastard, took such personal offense and almost slaughtered Kenny's throat when he insulted Kyle, countering the king's own orders of non-violence, frenzied by the idea of anyone deriding such a magnificent creature. Kenny could then understand why every single elf willingly threw themselves to the king's feet when he passed by, not because they felt repressed, not because they feared him, but because… Because he was simply…

"Beautiful." Kenny murmured breathless after swallowing all the water.

He was nested on Kyle's arms like a baby now, his head hanging back weakly.

Deeply blue eyes met terribly green eyes.

"I hate to see anyone like this… Human or not, I hate to keep prisoners." The king's gentle hand caressed Kenny's sweaty forehead, even though the man was shaking in cold. "I see the good in you."

The blonde shut his eyes close like those words hurt him.

And he didn't have the chance to open them up again. The dream melted in darkness for a few moments, giving place to another one.

He was now a monkey playing high up in the trees of the grove, feeling the nice autumn wind blowing on his face, skillfully jumping from branch to branch. There was nothing to run away from, nothing to fear. Life was so simple. He could throw his own poop at people and spend his days picking little bugs from his thick monkey hair. And above all of that: he was free. If he was sane, he wouldn't remember any particular moment when he wished he was a monkey. No, he liked birds and felines. But in the turbid images of his dream, being a monkey was awesome. It was freaking spectacular. Everything tasted like berries and pretty colors, that is, if you could actually eat colors. Everything was so green and Kenny loved it, he wanted to live in that green forever. Green like the king's eyes, the same exact tone of green. He wanted to live inside the king's eyes.

That's the last thing he thought before he woke up.

Kenny was so emerged in his own mind that he couldn't understand why his arm felt so wet. It wasn't wet. He could see his hairy hand and it clearly was not wet, so where the hell did that funny feeling came from?

It took a loud noise of a metal object falling hard on the ground to suck Kenny back to reality, opening his eyes widely. The first thing he saw was another pair of brown eyes staring at him really closely, filled with fear, like he was some sort of troll or forest monster. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then the little man started yelling at his face, without stepping back. The blonde responded with a very confused scream of terror, even though he had no idea what he was screaming about. Kenny lifted his torso and tried to pull away from the guy, but his hand yanked him back and only then he noticed one of his wrists was handcuffed to the iron bar of the cell gate. Well, shit. He grabbed onto the bars, still yelling, studying the little guy that ran off the cell with his shaky little legs (everything about him was just so little). Jesus, those legs were as thin as a baby goat's.

Kenny finally stopped screaming. So did the boy. Before he could understand what the fuck was going on there, the room was filled with guards pointing arrows at him with threatening gazes on their faces.

"Oh… Oh, blast! No, no! P-please! Don't, don't h-harm him! He did nothing wrong!" The scared boy shouted. He had a freakishly heavy accent, Kenny noticed. "Please, don't! It… I-i-it was my own fault, I dropped the bucket and it woke him up in the middle of his bath. I am so terribly sorry. Please, just… Could you perhaps lower the bows? Weapons make me terribly uncomfortable!"

Kenny almost felt sorry for the kid. He was a younger elf whose his hair was platinum blonde like the prisoner had never seen before and it was cut so symmetrically squared that it was almost funny. But the hair was nothing to laugh about when you took some time to look at the boy's clothes. He was wearing an unbelievably voluminous violet pair of pants and had a giant ribbon tied around his neck in the same color as those pants. And his little hat… God, it was awful. Kenny wanted so hard to laugh, but it felt too cruel even for him, so he took his free hand to cover his mouth after letting out a short giggle.

After the amusement faded away, he realized he wasn't wearing his shirt and he was sitting on an enormous pool of water. His arm was wet and wondrously cleaner than the rest of his body. There was a big yellow sponge soaked in water in the middle of the room and the fallen metal bucket nearby. There was also an open little wooden box that seemed to contain a few medical tools. Kenny stared at the boy with a confused expression, but he didn't look back, keeping his closed fist against his mouth, looking scared as the guards left the room one by one. Some of them instructed him to handcuff the prisoner's other hand too now that he was awaken.

"We'll be right here outside the door, Pip. Don't be frightened." One of them said with a bit of compassion in his voice.

Kenny actually felt sorry for the poor creature. He didn't understand why none of the guards had offered to handcuff him instead of leaving the job for a scared little kid. Yeah, he wasn't such a moral person, but still. It didn't feel right.

"Dude. Were you bathing me? Seriously?"

"Oh, y-yes. I mean… Well. It's what the king ordered me to do, my good sir." Pip said, nodding his head, frowning and punishing himself mentally for calling a prisoner "sir". His cheeks were slightly blushed and he prayed to God that this man didn't notice it. Kenny wasn't paying attention to the boy's cheeks. He was too busy coming to the conclusion that being a foreign was a prerequisite if you wanted to work for the High Elf.

"And your name is Pip." He said with an amused smile, not being able to hold down a short laugh. He didn't mean for the boy to feel insulted, but he was so bizarre to look at already, it almost felt unfair that his name was funny too.

Luckily, Pip didn't take any offense.

"Oh no, that would be just silly. My name is Philip Pirrup!" he answered excitedly.

And that's not silly at all, Kenny thought while rolling his lips into his mouth to hold back an inevitable laugh before that odd figure, keeping his hand over his mouth the whole time. He was such a character that Kenny couldn't even pick one thing to joke about. Struggling to keep a straight face, he cleared his throat and scratched behind his ear.

"Is there any special reason why the king wants me clean?"

"I… I'm sorry, sir, I didn't ask about that. Maybe he was bothered by the smell?"

"I can clean myself up now, if you bring me back some water. You don't have to do that."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, sir. The king gave me an order. I just need to…" walking on tiptoes, stepping slowly, the little boy entered the cell once again without taking his eyes off the prisoner. Very quickly he leaned down to grab the bucket's handle, all clumsy, then ran back desperately like Kenny was a big voyeur lion and he was a innocent little zebra. "I'll get more water."

The blond little boy ran off the room, causing the floorboards to creak awfully loud, leaving the cell's door wide open. Not that Kenny would consider doing anything stupid about it. He couldn't, with his wrist handcuffed to the bar. And even if he wasn't handcuffed, there was a whole army of elves outside just waiting for any jolt, ready to shoot him in the head. Elves were damn accurate with their bows and arrows. They were born for archery.

It was only in Pip's absence that Kenny took a good look around the cell. The soap and water pool spread across the floor, watering his butt and legs, making him even more uncomfortable. But for a long time he hadn't even known what comfort was anymore. He snorted impatiently. It was the beginning of winter and the cold had just now started to manifest itself. The cell was cold enough as it was, but being there shirtless on the wet floor was like begging for pneumonia, certainly. Kenny noticed his shirt – dingy and nasty, but carefully folded with another clean change of clothes there wasn't there before – over the bed, near a plate full of food. The blonde frowned. Now that's odd, Kenny thought. He stretched his neck to see what was in the plate. It was no grey goo like the shit they used to serve him. It was real meat, big chunky slices of meat, and some colorful vegetables.

"Wait a minute." The blonde muttered to himself.

The boy came back holding the bucket by the handle with both of his hands, humming some song that felt familiar to Kenny's ears, with was strange, since he never thought that humans and elves shared similar cultural traits, especially in music. But he left that question for later.

"Pip, did you bring me food?"

The boy blinked curiously.

"Oh no, I… I'm not allowed to do that."

"Come here, buddy." Kenny called, waving his free hand so that Pip would enter the cell. The kid, however, seemed terrified and suspicious that the prisoner had some sort of plan, but he entered the cell nevertheless, taking really slow steps towards Kenny. "Tell me something, would ya? On a scale of one to ten, what would be the odds of the king paying me night visits, let's say, for example… Last night. What are the chances that he came to see me and brought me food while I slept?"

Now, a curious countenance took place in Pip's face, leaving no more room for fear. His feet splashed into the pool of water, making noises as he approached. He bent his knees and dropped the bucket beside Kenny, staying squatting so he didn't get his butt wet by sitting on the wet floor.

"I'm not quite sure I'm following you, sir…"

Kenny signed over the plate with his head, scratching his chin at the same time. His beard was much thicker than he usually allowed it to be, same as his hair.

"Who the fuck has brought me that?"

"I… I have no clue. It was already here when I came in. One of the guards must have brought it while you slept, I would guess."

The prisoner pondered a little bit, looking towards the plate, then decided not to tell the little man about whatever it was that he saw (or at least what he thought he had seen) the night before. The mere possibility that the king had actually visited him and fed him water set a chill running through Kenny's spine, although he wasn't exactly sure why the idea felt so gruesome to him. But he did have a clue. It must had been because Kenny could not remember one single time in his whole life in which he had felt so fucking exposed. At the previous night he had been weak, delusional, trembling and in need. And if it had been real, if he had truly been taken in those gentle arms and held so intimately, if they both had shared that moment of pure tenderness and compassion between two enemies…

Oh, it was creepy. It was just so creepy.

Without questioning anything, Pip drowned the sponge into the bucket and carefully got closer, taking his hand to Kenny's arm, who watched him with amuse in his eyes. Pip's shaky fingers held the man's wrist and lifted his arm, getting back at what he was doing before the blonde woke up. He didn't take the guards advice about handcuffing the prisoner's other hand too, and Kenny didn't understand why, but was thankful for that. It was so uncomfortable not being able to move one of your arms.

"Where are you from, Pip?" He suddenly asked.

Those brown eyes looked up to stare at the prisoner and seemed troubled by the question. Pip licked his lips nervously. Kenny could feel that his hands were shaking a little while scrubbed the thick layer of filthy out of his shoulder.

"Great Britain." He answered sotto voce.

"Ha. I always liked the British better than the French anyway."

Pip frowned.

"Are you referring to The Mole, my good sir?"

"Mole?"

"I mean… Christophe." His voice once again came lower, while he squeezed the sponge over Kenny's strong naked chest. The prisoner hissed in response and wrinkled his nose, bothered by the cold temperature of the water against his skin. "He… That's how we call him here. Sometimes I can't even recall his real name." Then he let out a nervous laugh. "Oh… He can be quite difficult sometimes, that is for sure. I was scared of him at first! Thought he was such a barmy. But I came to admire him so much. He has a lot of bottle, you know, more than anyone! I know he must seem mean to you, well… Given the circumstances. But believe me, sir, he's not a bad man at all!"

"And what the hell did that bastard do to get on the king's good side anyway? I was there picking some apples, not hurting anyone, and look where the fuck I ended up. That guy is as much of a human as I am. And a much crazier one, by the way."

"Oh yes, now he's our faithful ally, but that has not always been the case. He has been where you are right now, of course." Pip timidly made a sign for Kenny to turn around and started to rub his back with the sponge, and they looked much dirtier than his chest. The prisoner's pants were already soaking wet. "He was in much worse conditions than you, sir. You see, he was quite aggressive and completely off his trolley when he first came here. But the king saw the good in him and bravely stood up for him when the Board wanted to get The Mole executed! They would have cut his head off, had the king not interfered. Mole is one of the most devoted servers to this day because he owns our majesty his life. He is completely grateful and faithful to the king." Pip's voice trembled at the end. "Oh good Lord, I… I should not be telling you all this, oh my. Here I am, yakking again! I should just belt up."

Kenny wasn't even paying attention anymore. He stopped listening at the "the king saw the good in him" part. It hit him like a brick in the head.

'I hate to see anyone like this… Human or not, I hate to keep prisoners. I see the good in you.' Kenny shut his eyes closed and shook his head, disturbed by the freakishly real memory of that sweet voice echoing inside his skull. The light touch of that hand on his forehead… He unconsciously brought his hand over his own forehead as if trying to reproduce the feeling, the moment when it all happened.

Then he felt the cold water pouring on his head, freezing his whole body. Pip was rubbing his scalp now, washing his hair – and God only knew how much dirt there was in those locks of golden hair. Pip's fingers massaged his head and it almost felt comforting for the prisoner.

He finally decided to answer:

"Yeah, I… I thought he had a little crush on your Highness, 'cause he almost cut my throat open when I made a little joke about the king. It was stupid. The guy is all cantankerous."

"Well, yes. He protects the king above anything else." Pip said simply.

"It didn't feel so protective to me. It felt more like he wanted to bang the king's ass. Oh, you people say "arse", don't you?" Kenny answered with a malicious smile on his lips, imitating Pip's accent.

A shadow fell over Pip's face.

"I hope that was not your "little joke", sir. Well, actually, I'm sure it wasn't. If it were, The Mole would have certainly cut your throat open. But not before smashing your head against the floor dozens of times."

"Why? Because it's true?"

"No. Because is dishonorable."

The prisoner didn't respond to that. Pip continued to rub Kenny's hair until it formed a lot of foam, being careful so that none of it got on his eyes. Pip was perfectly aware of the king's reasons for sending him to do this job, instead of letting the prisoner bath himself. The king hadn't told him this, but Pip knew it was a test. Kyle wanted to see how the prisoner would react if he was given some (illusory) opportunity of escaping or at least taking revenge on an elf for the punches he took.

But up until now, Kenny hadn't shown any intention of doing so.

The silent remained for the rest of the bath. Pip washed his feet, then shyly asked him to take his pants off and rubbed his legs, letting him keep his underpants through the process (although Kenny would have no problem at taking them off, being nude never bothered him). The British cleaned his face, neck and ears very carefully, using and wet cloth, focused on the task while Kenny seemed miles away in thought. When Pip announced he would take care of his wounds, to Kenny's surprise, there was a new attempt of a conversation:

"I've heard you are a prince." The boy said, pulling closer his wooden box and taking off a bunch of cottons and a small bottle closed with a cork, filled with some green liquid and Kenny had no idea what it was. "Perhaps after this bath you will look more like one."

"Who told you that bullshit?"

Pip shrugged, pouring some of the green stuff into the cotton and then bringing it to Kenny's open wounds on his leg. He expected it to burn or hurt or sting, but there was nothing. It had a strong scent of herbs and grass, though.

"That's the story that has been going around, sir."

Kenny couldn't contain his laugh before the ridiculous idea.

"Wow. No, I mean… Yeah, my sister is royalty. She's the princess of Kupa Keep, big deal. But that sure as hell doesn't make me a prince. She lives in a castle, I live in a tree. Her noble title wasn't hereditary, you see, there was a revolution for the old king's deposition and the leader of this revolution, as much as a good leader, was a fucking jerk. Everybody knew it. Hell, even he knew it. That's why he adopted my sister when he came to power. Because he could lead and terrorize all he wanted, making everyone afraid of him, but he had a face to show love and compassion for the people. That's where she comes in. Every commonwealth needs the two poles. A face to fear and a face to love."

Pip raised his eyebrow for the last sentence, thinking about it for a while before saying anything, although the answer was right and ready on the tip of his tongue.

"I beg to differ, sir. Our people fear no face. I-I don't know how things work in your world, but…" The boy's skillful hands stopped treating the wounds. His brown eyes focused on nothing in specific and a smile came to light up his face. "Here, we are governed with devotion and… Love, I would say. Things were very different when I was a boy in the United Kingdom as well, but you know, good sir… I came here at a very young age. I pay my services to the castle since I was a child, I have known our king since was the little heir of the throne. We grew up together. Played together. He didn't mind that he was royalty and I was a piss poor little war orphan serving the minted. And for that, since I was a child, I have loved him and I simply knew in my heart that he would be a marvelous king. Yes, he could be… Quite a bit shirty sometimes. He still can, because he is so passionate. It is rather scary when he yells, but he does it with such passion, so personally involved by the people's matters… And he never does it by repressive means. He is never unfair. Our people idolize because he fights for us, he listens to our needs, and he makes sacrifices for us. We don't fear him. We respect him. We love him and he loves us back."

While listening, Kenny visualized in his mind Kyle's features on the first day they've met, when the redhead yelled at him for the very first time, so irritated by Kenny's little games and jokes. He looked beautiful holding to those bars, gripping them in his fists, his eyes on fire. So passionate, Pip was right. There was just so much passion on Kyle's angry words and his body language, his flushed cheeks. His eyes looked even greener when he shouted threats. And Kenny couldn't understand why a smile filled his lips so naturally, so impossible to hold back, while he remembered about their first encounter. God, Kyle was hot when he was mad. Kenny rubbed his forehead with his free hand, sighing heavily, a little worried about his own ideias.

"You do know you're talking about the same king that sent you here to bath a prisoner with only one cuffed hand, right? That's dangerous. It's a high risk to take." He told Pip as if he was referring to some other prisoner, not himself, smirking while pinching his bottom lip.

"Well, yes. And I didn't even blink before obeying his order, sir. Because I trust him entirely. I would trust my own life to him."

"Yeah, you kind of did."

"And you see, I'm all in one piece so far."

"So far." The prisoner whispered, raising an eyebrow to provoke him. The smile on his lips fight hard to keep looking malicious, but he was genuinely having fun and it ended up making Pip laugh too instead of scaring him more, while cleaning Kenny's swollen eye.

. . .

Before Pip left, he wanted to clean up the place, claiming that cell looked like a real "dog's dinner". Kenny had some fun with the little guy, in fact. Sometimes he couldn't understand what the boy was saying, but he got the idea. The British man dried the floor with an old cloth, helped Kenny to get in his new clothes, took the old ones away with him and locked the gate. When the prisoner was alone once again, he felt like a new man, which wasn't a good thing at all. He sat down on the bed and put the dinner plate over his lap, taking the pieces of meat in his hands and devoured them like a bear. God, he was hungry. The meat was cold, stiff and hard to chew, but Kenny swallowed every bite of it so fast, trying to get everything he could into his body, barely trying to chew at this point. His stomach complained for not being prepared to digest a rare steak from yesterday. But it didn't matter. It was food. Better yet, it was food that tasted incredibly nicer than anything he had eaten for the last couple of weeks. He ate fast and thought even faster. His brain was working five hundred miles per minute, considering all his possibilities right now.

The king cared for him. That was good. Kyle had a heart pure enough to give someone (who obviously didn't deserve it) a second chance. Oh yeah, Kenny was very much aware that he wasn't worthy of any chance at all, he was no hypocrite. He accepted fairly well what he was.

Shit, that little fag must be contagious or something, he thought as he licked his fingers. Because everyone in that kingdom saw Kyle at such a higher level, maybe it was starting to get to Kenny's head too. Which could work at his favor when he needed to convince other people whose hearts wasn't as pure as Kyle's that he was reliable, like that watchdog Stanley or Mr. François. All Kenny had to do was making the elves trust him.

After he had eaten all the meat, he went for the vegetables; Broccoli, cauliflower, carrot, tomato and some watercress. He hated watercress, but he'd came to such level of hunger that even the rat's crumb on the floor would have seemed delicious. Kenny was a simple man. He didn't need much to live. That's why he was sent there.

It had been easier to convince himself while he was all dirty, wearing torn clothes and his wounds were hurting like hell. Easier to think that the elves deserved what was coming for them. Because at that state, it was also easier to think of himself as nothing more than a nasty lying thief who could never be anything else, anything better than that. Fuck, he missed smoking when things got this messed up in his head. And now, Kenny was wearing clean clothes (he had almost forgotten how this felt like), his body was neat and his hair smelled like soap, his wounds had been treated, his stomach was full and he had some sense of comfort… It was harder to ignore what he knew was coming for those peaceful people. The elves kindness to him was almost corrosive.

Cartman had told him this would happen when he got there. Kenny remembered his king's words very well.

" _Let me tell you a little something about Kyle. He is fucking dangerous, Kinny. You're gonna look at him and laugh, because he looks like a damn sissy girl who can't throw a single punch for his life, and he probably can't, but he doesn't have to. He's gorgeous, I'll give you that. He's as gorgeous as he is a deceptive cold little bitch. He speaks so softly to you, seducing you with his phony angel's voice, staring into your soul with those damn green eyes and I swear to you, Kinny, even the toughest fucker will want to fall down his knees and say "yes, master". Hell, even I would want to, if I didn't know what a lying whore Jew snake he is. You be fucking careful. I know you think with your dick, that's my only concern with you. If you screw this for me, I'll have your head served on a silver platter. Don't break my balls, Kinny_."

He had a job to do and that wasn't a good time to have doubts about his own ideals. Kyle had seen it wrong. There was no good in him.

"Shit…" Kenny grumbled to himself, running his fingers through his wet hair. "It would be so much easier if he wasn't so fucking beautiful, I swear."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm changing some of the canon roles and relationships between characters, some things are going to be different from the game, nothing major. I guess you could tell that by the fact that Kenny isn't the princess. The princess won't be an Original Character, she is a South Park character too. And she's not Karen. That's all, folks.


	5. Kiss the frog

Kenny got slapped.

He couldn't believe it for the first few seconds. Well, he was a very good looking man. He knew it for sure, because he was always using it to his own advantage. He'd never been slapped after kissing someone before; no matter how inconvenient he was when trying to woo a girl. Besides his looks, he also was charming as hell. Women may not even like him very much, but they couldn't resist the whole package. Maybe that was the problem in this particular situation: Kyle wasn't a woman. Despite what common sense said, men could be even more complicated than women; At least the men who Kenny was attracted to. They had all those unbearably tricky female qualities, but they also had the unparalleled male pride. Yeah, Kenny asked for it.

He blinked his light blue eyes in a very confused manner, still a little perplex. And it wasn't because of the pain, even though his cheek was red and burning a bit, but Kenny's confusion was conceptual. He didn't understand what the fuck had just happened. He was so sure that Kyle wanted this. Apparently, he was wrong.

. . .

48 hours before the slap, Kyle was crossing the courtyard in a hurry to get to the other side, his dark green heavy cloak dragged along the stone ground behind him as he walked. He tightened his grip around the silver scepter in his fist and stepped strongly, frowning while facing forward. He was so focused on the discussion he was about to have at the conference room where he was heading to that he didn't even notice Christophe watching him since he stepped outside the castle. It was pretty early in the morning and it was especially cold that day, but the Frenchman was wearing a brown tank top with his beefy arms on display like he felt no chill whatsoever.

He almost smiled when he noticed what Kyle was wearing. The king dressed so fancy, Christophe always found that amusing.

Kyle was about to pass by him without realizing his presence, but Christophe stretched his arm to wrap it around the king's torso, stopping him from moving forward, pulling him against his body by surprise. Kyle turned around looking very annoyed before he recognized the man, then put a hand on The Mole's chest and stepped back, but Christophe's hand was still around his waist.

"May I ask where are you heading to in such hurry?"

The sky was so beautiful that morning. The major part of the elves palace was of outdoors area, so Christophe took that nice sunny day off to clean up his knifes, although he kept himself out of the sun, under the safety of the trees' shadows. He didn't like the sunlight. There was an unbelievably large collection of knifes laid out on the stone bench, drying in the sun while he smoked a cigarette. But he put the cigarette out a few moments before Kyle passed by him. He knew the king didn't like the smoke.

At last, he took his hand off Kyle's waist. He redhead crossed his arms and crooked his head slightly to the side, watching the man's countenance.

"Have you seen my brother?"

"Non, sir." He answered without giving it a thought.

"Yeah, well, it seems like nobody has. No one can tell me where he is. I need to go to the board's meeting now, but if you could keep your eyes open, I really appreciate it, Mole. Ike has been going missing a lot lately and I just don't have the time to deal with it. I get so mad when he does this, it's like he doesn't understand that we're in war now, I… He can't just disappear like that, I always think the worst possible…"

"Kyle." Christophe's dirty hands carefully involved the redhead's arms and he lowered his head so his eyes would be at the same level as Kyle's. He licked his upper lip before he continued. "Relax, oui? I'm sure he's fine. You know how ze kid is. I'll find him for you."

After a long and deep breath, the king nodded his head and raised his hand to pat The Mole's forearm in a thanking gesture.

"I have to go. They're waiting for me."

. . .

The view from the conference room was incredibly breathtaking. The room was located in the highest floor of the palace, surrounded by huge windows on every wall, so you could see the entire groove - from up there it looked like a green mantle, pretty similar to material of Kyle's cloak – and the waterfall that glistened in the sunshine of that beautiful morning. The view was lovely enough to calm people down, which was strategic because they were usually tense when they had to go there for a meeting. The members of the board were sitting around the long stone table and the king was sitting at the end with his chin supported by the palm of his hand, his gaze focused on the centerpiece, looking extremely thoughtful. His crown was slightly tilted to the side of his head, as usual.

"Your Majesty." Wendy shyly called him.

Kyle's gaze went from the centerpiece directly to her face. The rest of his body stood still. He didn't answer her, but stared at her with unbreakable attention so that she knew he was listening. But the king's stare was so intense that she felt intimidated, which hardly ever happened, so she cleaned her throat and looked at Token across the table for help.

"The king of Kupa Keep doesn't seem to be interest in any kind of negotiation, my lord." Token said with a steady voice, calm as ever. "He's very willing to shed blood."

"Of course he is." The king muttered, facing down.

A few more seconds passed in silence until he slapped his hands on the table and got up from his chair, leaning his torso over the stone surface to take a good look at every single member of the board with careful attention. He blindly trusted those elves and couldn't help but notice the concern in their eyes.

"If Cartman wants blood, we'll give him blood. Giving him the stick is not an option. Nobody who calls it "the stick of truth" deserves to own it. He thinks this is a joke, he's just a big rebel boy with way too much power on his hands." Kyle gently hit the tip of his index finger on the table as he spoke, without even noticing he was doing it. "Anyone begs to differ?"

"Not at all, Your Highness, but we still have a pending issue that we need to… Deal with." The blond next to Token said out loud, raising his chin while rubbing his fingers over his jaw, looking contemplative.

"Yes, Gregory?"

"What are we going to do with the captured man? Is he useful to us? The king of Kupa Keep perhaps would give us something to have him back, if he is indeed the princess' brother."

The questioning man was wearing a light orange smock and his hair was impeccably tidy, not a single strand out of place. His teeth were white as white can be. He always spoke louder than everyone else, more eloquent, gesticulating with one hand and raising his eyebrow when he made his point, sounding a little overbearing every time he opened his mouth.

Before Kyle could answer him, Wendy leaned over the table to take a better look at Gregory, interrupting any attempt of reply from the king. Wendy was the most intelligent woman any elf has ever known, which compensated for her explosive genie. She and Gregory often engaged in big arguments during the meetings.

"Are we sure we want Cartman to know we have this man? This could be unwise if the prisoner's story is true. If this is a man who refused a throne and ran away from Kupa Keep, he might have information that we could use. He was inside that kingdom for a great part of his life, was he not? Like Christophe. If we don't give him back to Cartman, he could be very useful to us."

"Are you suggesting that he would come to our side?" Gregory asked her with an amused smile, slightly ironic, bending his elbow over the table. "He's not Christophe. That makes no sense. First of all, because his story is untrue; he didn't run away. Cartman sent him here. And any information he might have would never be willingly given to us."

"I'm not so sure about that." Token intervened. "We had a very similar talk a couple of years ago, about The Mole. You remember it, Gregory, you were the first one to say that he should die and I was the first one to agree with you. Look how that turned out. I think Wendy is right, we all know what an oppressive king Cartman is. It is possible that this man… Kenneth? It's possible that he is as much against the human king's ways as we are. Only the gods can tell what could happen if Cartman got his hands on the stick. If we can make the prisoner understand this… We might have ourselves an ally."

Gregory shook his head as he massaged his temples. Henrietta, who was sitting right in front of him, glanced at the blond in disapproval, although the expression on her face was indecipherable. It always was. Henrietta was the member who less spoke, because she didn't waste her time speculating. When she said something, she was absolutely sure of her opinion. Kyle admired that very much.

After a long pause, sighing heavily, the king straightened the crown on his head, scratched the tip of his nose and took some time to consider the situation before crossing his arms.

"I want you to consider this very carefully." he finally said. "Kenneth is just a man. He's not important enough that Cartman will send an army after him, we're taking no big risks by keeping him as our prisoner, even if he is the princess' brother. But Lady McCormick may want her brother back. There is only one way to find out what the intentions of Kupa Keep are: we'll send them a message communicating the palace that we have him. Then we'll know if he's worthy as currency exchange. My guess is that Cartman will say something like "kill the fucker if you want to, I don't even mind", which may help us to convince Kenneth of his king's bad nature, in case he's being faithful to Cartman. Then I believe he'll tell us everything he knows."

"And what if he knows nothing? What if he really is just stroller with no blood connection to the princess?" Wendy asked.

"Well, put him on a dress and you'll see that you can't distinguish him from Princess McCormick. Believe me. He is her brother, he's not lying about that. I am certain."

And he was. Kyle had been in the presence of the human royalty on several occasions. There was no doubt that the man locked up the tower was a McCormick, and soon every member of the board would be able to see that. But Kyle wasn't sure if that meant Kenny knew anything about the war.

"Stanley has shown me his attack strategies for the battle in the Loveypie hill. Gregory has been keeping up with the training of our army. Stan coaches them daily. Our men are strong and ready. We are confident that this confront will be enough for Cartman to realize he can't handle an invasion to our lands without losing all of his army." The king continued, casting a glance at Gregory, who nodded in response.

"I'm afraid to remind you, Your Highness." Wendy said in a low tone. "But we are not dealing with a fair man. Cartman is treacherous. He must be counting with other means of getting the stick, besides an invasion. He knows we won't compromise."

"Well, our prisoner is the perfect example of Cartman's other means." Gregory told her, pointing his finger towards the long dark haired woman. Then, he turned his face to Kyle. "He was sent here for the stick. I have no doubt about it, Majesty."

"I do." Token answered him. "That man was captured under daylight. Nobody who doesn't want to get caught goes on a mission in enemy territory under bright daylight."

"Do you trust him, Your Highness?" Henrietta asked from across the table, manifesting for the first time. She was comfortably reclined in her chair, looking at her chipped nail polish as she spoke, like she hadn't been the one to ask the question in the first place and didn't care for the answer. But Kyle was absolutely sure she was paying attention to everything.

Naturally, he had to think about it, not wanting to get ahead of himself. It was a question that he'd been thinking about for days already. "Trust" was a strong term to be used with any unknown man, especially a man who you keep locked up behind bars for a good reason. He was extremely suspicious, of course. And no, Kyle didn't trust him. He couldn't. But it wasn't a question to be answered with "yes" or "no", because a big part of the king believed in that man's story. A big part of him believed, above all, that Kenny was good inside.

So he licked his lips and cleaned his throat, facing his advisers before he said:

"I believe him." Then a pause. "But I don't recommend any of you to precipitate. Like Gregory said… He's not Christophe."

. . .

24 hours before the slap, Kenny was sitting on the floor of his cell, close to the bars, with his back against the wall, chewing an apple that the dark haired boy had just given him. The boy kneeled next to the prisoner, although they were separated by the iron bars, and listened attentive to the blond man.

"I was a prince like you once, you knew that?" Kenny asked him before swallowing the apple bite, still chewing.

The teen's eyes opened wide in curiosity.

For almost a week now, every sunrise (while the kingdom was still deep asleep), Ike had put on his boots and ran up the tower stairs smiling, bringing some food to the prisoner while the blond slept profoundly on the floor. He'd heard the guards talking about him, saying that Kenny was starving and getting wondrously skinny. Ike didn't want the man to starve to death, no matter who he was. At first, he just passed the food (usually a fruit) through the bars and left it there, running away as fast as he could before anyone saw him. That is, until the day Kenny woke up with the boy's arrival. Ike had never seen a real prisoner before.

Now, he longed for the sunrise every morning so he could sneak up to the tower and talk to the man. He'd never met anyone like Kenny. The only human he had ever spoken to was The Mole, whom Ike really cared for, but he also could be a little scary. He was very weird and spitted on the ground often. Kenny was different from him. He smiled a lot more – even though he didn't have all of his teeth, and Ike was very impressed by the story of how he extracted his own loose tooth with his fingers, inside that same cell –, he was funny and pleasant when Christophe was cranky and coarse.

And Kenny never spit on the ground, not even once. At least not in front of Ike.

"That's bullshit. You're all covered in filth, you can't be a prince."

A few days had passed since his last bath with that Pip guy, so he was indeed a little covered in dirt, but nothing compared to how he was before. So he laughed out loud, imagining Ike's reaction if he'd seen how disgusting the blond looked when he was first brought there.

"Well, you would be filthy too if they didn't let you take a shower. Your brother has some freaky rule about my personal hygiene. But there was a time when I was neat and lived in a castle just like you."

It was hard to believe that the teenager sitting in front of him was Kyle's younger brother. The two of them didn't share one single physical resemblance. Kenny could still feel a similar energy from both of them, not exactly a similar way of speaking or acting, but the same enthusiasm, the same sparkle. You could tell Kyle and Ike were somehow tuned. Kenny bit the apple again and laughed at the boy's shocked face.

"How old are you, Ike?"

"I'm sixteen. You know, I started to train this year. I've always been great in archery, but my brother only put me officially on training a few months ago. I want to be a warrior, like Stan."

"You're so young. And your brother too, he seems so young to be a king."

The shine in the boy's eyes faded a little when he heard the prisoner's words, and for a moment, Kenny didn't understand why it felt like he had just said something very inappropriate. He took a bite on his apple while carefully watching the sad smile that came up on Ike's lips.

"Cartman killed our dad." Was all he said.

Kenny stood still for a few seconds, chewing without changing his face expression, just blinking. After he swallowed, he ran his tongue over his teeth and broke the gaze between him and Ike, sighing deeply.

"Man, he's an asshole."

"Yeah. Tell me about it."

Before they could continue their conversation, the door flew open with a loud noise, making them both jump in scare. Ike turned around with his heart racing in his chest, only to see Christophe with a hand on each side of the door and a furious look on his eyes, staring at the two of them with a frown before asking:

"What ze fuck are you doing 'ere?! How did you pass ze guards, you fucking little rat?"

Ike parted his lips to argue, but nothing came out. The Mole could be profoundly frightening when he wanted to, even with Ike, who he would never ever hurt, by any chance. At some level, the boy knew that, but it didn't stop him from stuttering when he couldn't find a good explanation for the man who marched towards him. Christophe grabbed him by the collar of his shirt to make him stand up, staring at Kenny the whole time.

The prisoner wasn't sure what he should do about the apple in his hand. Christophe had already seen it, so it was too late to try and hide it. But he didn't want the kid to get in trouble for bringing him food. He stretched his arm in protest when the Frenchman pulled Ike by shirt.

"Dude! Leave the boy alone, he didn't do anything wrong."

"You shut ze fuck up!" He spitted to Kenny, pointing his finger at his direction in a threatening way. Then, looking back at Ike, he said with a smoother tone. "Your brother is worried sick, Petit." The patted Ike's shoulder awkwardly, sending him towards the door. "You shouldn't be sneaking up 'ere. It isn't safe."

Without questioning him and without looking back at Kenny, the boy shook his head in understanding and ran to the door. Kenny felt bad for him. He bit his apple one more time, filling his mouth as much as he could because he was sure that the man would take the fruit away from him. Much to his surprise, Christophe didn't. He gave the blond one last lowering look, tightened his jaw. Then he gave Kenny his back and followed Ike, without saying another word.

. . .

At the same time the next morning, right after sunrise, the other Broflovski brother showed up – looking extremely pissed off – at his cell's door. Kyle opened the lock in a very noisy and careless way, pushing the gate open with anger and stepping heavily inside Kenny's cell, walking directly to him. Kenny heard the loud noise, but didn't completely wake up until Kyle grabbed him by the shirt with both hands, raising his heavy body from the ground –since Kenny never slept on the bed - like he didn't weight a pound. The prisoner was impressed. The elf was much stronger than he looked. Still perplex and disoriented, shaking his head confusedly to recover his senses, Kenny tried to stand up. But Kyle didn't give him the time, shaking him promptly as he yelled to the prisoner's face:

"You've been taking food from my little brother, you son of a bitch?!"

"What?" Kenny asked genuinely confused a few seconds before getting thrown to the ground again.

The king gave him his back and ran his fingers through his red hair, puffing testily. Kenny blinked a couple of times, trying to situate himself, still not entirely awake. It was hard for him to open his eyes. He raised his palm to protect his eyes from the sunlight coming through the window, making it harder for him so see anything. Then, when his eyes grew used to the light, he could see the redhead, who seemed to be very mad about something. Kenny noticed that he didn't have his crown on and also looked like he'd just gotten out of bed.

"I did everything I could for you. I gave you food and water on my own, I cleaned you up, I gave you new clothes, I do everything I can everyday to convince people that we shouldn't chop your head off. And nevertheless, you go behind my back and take advantage of a little boy who has nothing to do with this madness, so that he brings you more food? You impress him, make him think you're really cool and talk him into doing you favors?!"

"Hey, hey, hey, wait a fucking minute there." Kenny replied with the same loud tone, raising his hand up in protest. He put the other hand on the floor to support his body and got up slowly, still reeling a little from his altered senses. God, he was sleepy. "I didn't do shit. He brought me food while I was sleeping, I didn't even know he was your brother. I didn't know it was some kid. I thought you had told the guards to be nice to me and give me fruits, I didn't talk him into anything. The only reason we were talking is because I woke up one day and he was here leaving a banana into my cell. And he's not a child, you know, he's not that supple."

Kyle frowned and approached Kenny as the blond spoke, walking so fast that, if it was to be completely honest, Kenny got a little scared. It wasn't exactly that he feared Kyle's physical strength. Hell no. He had never been afraid of getting his ass kicked because he had a high tolerance to pain and he had been beaten up by much bigger and stronger men. He knew Kyle couldn't actually hurt him, at least no right there, when they were alone. But the redhead was so angry and came closer to him so quickly, like some wild feline, that Kenny's first instinct was to step back.

The king's index finger soon was pointing directly to his face.

"Don't make me regret standing up for you, Kenny." He whispered in a lower voice, keeping the same angry intonation.

"And why the hell do you?!" Kenny retorted, no longer deterred, leaning forward to get his face at the same level as Kyle's, as if showing the redhead how much taller and bigger he was. "I never asked anything from you!"

A moment of tense silence passed while both of them kept their faces close to each other, breathing heavily, their gazes locked. Without thinking about it, as soon as Kyle parted his lips to speak, Kenny wrapped both arms around his waist and pulled him against his own body sharply, never changing his stern expression nor taking his eyes off Kyle's confused ones. It was too late to retreat now. His hand slid through the king's soft back, feeling the texture of his morning gown, pressing the slim figure of Kyle's body into his arms, holding him tightly. Their hearts beat together at the same quick, anxious pace. One of the prisoner's rude hands left his back and went up to grab a lock of his hair, which felt so silky and smelled so good. Kyle's hair smelled like orchids, yes, he was close enough to inhale it and it was freaking intoxicating. The grip of his hand tightened around those beautiful red curls as he brought Kyle's face closer to his own, leaving the king frozen, not knowing how to react. His eyes were half-open, his breathing was rough against Kenny's skin.

The prisoner's lips opened, rubbing slightly over Kyle's tender ones as the king's hands glided up on Kenny's large solid chest and gripped the fabric of his shirt the same way he did when he woke the blond up, but this time he did with less anger and more will, moaning so softly against Kenny's lips, so involved by the moment that he could barely notice what he was doing.

It wasn't a slow romantic kiss. Kenny's tongue parted Kyle's lips by force, craving for the redhead's, invading his mouth with hunger as he squeezed the king's waist into his arm, pulling his hair with his free hand, crooking the king's head lightly to the side so he could explore his mouth more deeply, moaning stuffy under a heavy breath while he tasted that sweet saliva. His beard skimmed over Kyle's sensible skin as their tongues twisted together, fighting for space, gaining headway as the elf slowly started to correspond to what was so quickly going on, smoothing the blond man's chest instinctively with his both hands, his touch so full of desire. It burned and it was so wrong, but he couldn't control it, he couldn't even think about it with that skillful tongue deep inside his mouth, sliding through his own, making his legs go wobbly. Kenny laid his head to the opposite side, sucking on Kyle's bottom lip for a few seconds, then dovetailing their lips together as if they were meant to be this way. His hand fumbled the king's back, pressing their torsos against each other, trying to be even closer to him as if it was humanly possible. He let go of Kyle's curls and slid his palm down the side of his neck, holding him still while kissing him aggressively.

But as soon as it started, it ended.

Before the blond could realize what was happening, Kyle pushed him using both hands on his chest and then slapped Kenny hard across the face.

Somehow, the redhead seemed even more pissed off than before.


	6. The wonderful magic of bonds

"Why the fuck did you do that?!" Kyle asked in a shrill voice.

It would have been so damn funny if Kenny wasn't completely confused. He could see perfectly well the blush overcoming the king's cheeks (he had beautiful cheeks, Kenny couldn't believe how he had missed that so far), the tremor in his hands and legs, those slightly swollen lips wet with saliva. The blond wanted to kiss him again, like he'd never wanted anything is his life. But there were so many things going through his mind, so many mixed scenes of what could happen if he went through with it. That kiss alone had brought a whole bunch of non-attractive possibilities for his future. There would be consequences, naturally. There always were. Maybe the king would decide to kill him with his bare hands right there and everything could be simpler.

Like hell Kenny would be so lucky.

Mentally terrified with the possibility of Cartman finding out that he indeed thought with his dick, Kenny defended himself using the only weapon he mastered: sarcasm. He let out an acid laugh in response and then ran the back of his hand over his mouth to clean the traces of saliva.

"Please, princess." He said with a mischievous smile on his lips. "Like you weren't begging for it."

"I wasn't! You fucking pig!"

Oh, but he was.

"You wanted it."

"I did not!"

Oh, but he did.

It was noticeable if you looked carefully into his eyes, the brightness of lust still remaining in those big green orbs, and his shaky hands, his parted fleshy lips. His racing heart, pounding so hard that Kyle thought it would put a hole on his chest, because he couldn't control it. He couldn't control his own body. The blood pumped so fast in his veins, making his face absurdly blushed.

And this king, the same king who was treated as sovereign and untouchable by everyone, was feeling shame – one of the most inferior feelings that ever were – right in front of Kenny, and more than that: because of Kenny. It was simply too delicious for the blond to keep his large smile from coming to the surface. He laid his head to the side, watching how Kyle angrily shrank himself in defense.

"Okay. If you didn't want it, then why are you looking like a little tomato?" the prisoner asked with much more sweetness in his voice than he intended to, crossing his arms.

"Do you want to get out of here alive, Kenneth? It sure as hell doesn't look like it."

The High Elf was already directing himself to the door as he spoke, stomping out of the cell as he straightening his silk banyan, trying to recover a little bit of his dignity. Of course that didn't take the victorious smile off the blond man's lips, although Kenny was very much aware that he shouldn't think of this whole situation as funny. He could be in a lot of trouble for it. But it was inevitable. He had made the king fall from his pedestal. Those nice legs were trembling from his kiss and he couldn't help but wonder what they looked like uncovered. Kyle could slap him as much as he wanted. He could threat and turn his face and act all aggrieved. None of that changed the fact that the king had enjoyed the kiss and it was enough to make Kenny smile from ear to ear. No one could take that away from him.

. . .

The elves kingdom's graveyard was located nearby the largest lake of the Grove. It wasn't surrounded by fences and it didn't have any big gravestone. In fact, it looked nothing like a graveyard. Each grave had a stone plate with a name of a royal elf on it, but more importantly, they were covered by flowers of all kinds and colors. Looking around, you would see a garden instead of a graveyard, and that's where the members of the royal family rested in peace. Gerald and Sheila Broflovski had been buried side by side, Sheila many years before Gerald, under the shadow of a centenary tree. Despite all the pain that visiting his parents' graves brought, it was still one of Kyle's favorite places in the whole kingdom. So peaceful and quiet. He sat down a stone bench next to their tumulus, brought his hands together between his tights like he was about to pray – although he never did – and cried only when it was strictly necessary. So much had always been expected from Kyle. His emotions were always buried inside because his responsibilities came first.

When he was twelve, he remembered it perfectly, Ike was very sick and he was afraid to lose his little brother. He started to cry. Then his mother slapped him hard across the face, right before she embraced him and whispered in his ear that they were strong people who never cried about their problems, but fixed them instead. Oh, no, don't think ill of Sheila Broflovski. Kyle would never trade the mother he had, no in a million years. She was a wonderful woman and he was so much like her.

Against his mother's lesson, when he was safe under the tree's shadow, in the middle of that restful scenario, watching the graves that told his story, the story of the elves' whose blue blood he carried in his veins, the king allowed himself to have feelings. And that was one hard door to close after it was open. The tears were almost obligatory. They ran down his face without him even noticing it. Kyle would only realize he was crying when it was time to head back and he had to pull himself together and smile once again. Because a king could never be weak. Therefore, no one ever saw him like this.

Well. Almost no one.

Stan's fond hand touched his shoulder in a supportive gesture, just so he knew he wasn't alone. Kyle turned to face him, a little scared, drying his wet cheek with the back of his hand, sniffing, staring at Stanley shining eyes thanks to the unshared tears.

"I knew I'd find you here."

Kyle moved to the side on the bench to give the warrior some space to sit down next to him, which Stan did without hesitating. The king's face was ruddy and his eyes looked puffy from crying. That hurt Stanley more than a knife going through his guts. He should know, he had a scar in his belly to prove that he knew what a knife in the guts felt like. What hurt the most was the impotence, knowing there was nothing he could do to make Kyle better. A comfortable silence took place between them as Stan's hand massaged the nape of the king's neck, then slid up to caress those beautiful red curls. He had a sad smile ready on his face, just in case the king turned to look at him. But Kyle didn't.

"I'm scared, Stanley." He whispered, facing down.

The warrior didn't take his hand off and didn't respond to it immediately, watching the profile of Kyle's face in that fragile position, something so unusual that sometimes he forgot how stunning the king looked when he cried.

"There's nothing wrong with being scared, your Grace." He said with the wisdom of a man who knows everything there is to know.

"You know, sometimes I still come here with the slightest bit of hope…" He shook his head and closed his eyes, which made the tears slid down his cheeks quickly. "That he'll rise up from his grave and tell me what to do."

Those bright green eyes looked more alive than ever when Kyle turned his face to gaze Stan's comforting expression, seeming as lost as when he was a child. The warrior wanted to hold him, but didn't dare to move. The king's lips were a bit wobbly as he held down the pain in his chest and his throat so it didn't show in his words. At last, the king continued, this time staring intensely at Stan.

"I don't know what to do. Good Lord, I miss him so much."

Stan knew he was talking about his father. And it was very understandable. All the weight of the war and the responsibility for his people fell over Kyle's shoulders before he was ready for the throne, although there wasn't a single bone in Stan's body that doubted of Kyle's capacity to lead and his wisdom, as if he'd been born to govern. He knew, deep in his heart, that they would win the war thanks to Kyle.

"I know that. But… He died defending all of us. He died as he wanted, where he wanted, in the battle field. That's where I want to die too, so I understand."

"Don't say that."

"It's true, my king. And he rests in peace, may the Lord have him in His keeping, because he knows that our people are protected under your guard. Your father, as wonderful as he was as our king, had the heart of a warrior. You're different. You're a truth governor, Kyle."

"That's not what my father wanted. And that's not what you want either. What he wanted was to win. To protect not only our people, but all the kingdoms, because if the stick is used for black magic, God knows how many souls will pay. Cartman disrupted our kingdom when he murdered our leader, he knew how much that would weaken us."

"But it didn't. We do have a leader. We have you. It happened three years ago and he's still not any closer to getting the stick for it."

Kyle looked away, shaking his head, not knowing what to say next. He was agitated. Stan's hand that rested in his nape carefully went down to his knee, not wanting to lose touch with the king, showing all the support he could through the little gestures. He knew those were the ones that meant the most to Kyle when he was lost. And even though he didn't say it all that often, Kyle had no idea what he would do if he didn't have Stan right there by his side.

He'd probably have gone insane already.

"It kills me to see you this way." The warrior whispered almost timidly, swallowing dry before continuing. "Tell me what I can do."

For a moment, the king didn't even react. He kept staring down, pressing his lips together, feeling the flush fading away from his face. He felt better. So he faced Stan once again, his eyes looking very different now. They were calm and assuring as always, like nothing had ever happened. He had inherited from his mother the ability (or habit) of controlling his emotions to the point that, after a moment of nearly breaking down, he would seem absolutely peaceful on the outside. Stan knew better than to fall for his facade, though. But he didn't say anything about it as the king's gentle hand touched his face, caressing his cheek with love and tenderness. Stan simply parted his lips and closed his eyes instinctively. Kyle's touch never failed to make him rapt.

"I'd love some company tonight. When I'm alone for a long time, my mind goes to dark places." He let his thumb freely fondle the warrior's jowl for a few seconds, then pull his hand away and got up from the bench. "Go back to your men. It's too early, they have a long day of training ahead and they need you. I don't want to lose any of my soldiers in the next battle, Stanley. Cartman is becoming frustrated and that only serves to make him more bloodthirsty."

Stanley just nodded in comprehension.

"Yes, your Grace."

"And come to my room after dinner, would you?"

With that, after taking a long look at his parents' names in the stone plates, Kyle turned around to retake the ceramic path that leaded to the castle, but Stan's voice stopped him from walking any further.

"Majesty." He called, full of uncertainty. Kyle heisted before turning around to face him again. Stan licked his lips nervously, taking courage to ask the question. "Have you… Have you visited the human prisoner today?"

Kyle considered lying to him. And if it was any other elf asking him, he certainly would have. But it wasn't. This was Stanley.

"Yes. I have."

And he went on his way.

. . .

The blond boy had just gotten out of the porcelain bathtub, stepping on the floor as gracefully as a ballerina. His skin smelled like rose champagne, his favorite flower and his favorite color. It was the color of his room. The delicious smell spread around the suite as he walked, drying his body with a soft white towel. He passed in front of the mirror, stopping for a moment to admire his own figure. His long blond hair was tight up in a top knot because he didn't want to get it wet as he bathed, which made his elegant shoulder exposed, something that hardly ever happened. He smiled noticing how nice his shoulders were. His body was skinny and lean, with little curves. He didn't like that very much, but learned to appreciate himself the way he was.

After he was dry, which he did slowly to enjoy the smoothness of his creamy skin, the boy went to his gigantic closet to choose what to dress that day. First he dressed his laced underpants, then he got his picked clothes and headed back to his room, throwing the garments over the huge bed, admiring his body in those panties in the mirror before continuing to dress. Putting one foot at a time over the mattress, he dressed his high stockings and connected the garter belts, then put on and tightened his corselet to shape his body, making him look like he had a nice waist. At last, he put on his underdress.

Now that he had his undergarments on, he sat on the little banquette before his dressing table, facing his clean countenance from every angle, sliding the tip of his fingers through his jaw. There was a very thin, almost imperceptible layer of blond hair piercing through the surface of the skin. He didn't have a lot of body hair, which was a relief, but he still hated when a beard started to manifest.

Before he could proceed with his morning rituals, there was a knock on the door. The boy frowned, surprised with a visit that early.

"Come in." He hesitantly said. He didn't like to be seen before he was ready.

Luckily, it was Patty, one of Cartman's servants that the blond liked the most. She opened the door and poked her head through the small crack, very shyly, looking nervously to the boy in the room and then looking away when realizing he was wearing nothing but underclothes. Patty cleaned her throat a bit embarrassed, staring to the ground, blushing.

Poor thing, the boy thought.

"I am deeply sorry to bother you. The king sent me with a communiqué. The palace has received news about Sir Kenneth. The king requests your presence in his chamber immediately."

"The elves sent news about Kenny?!" He repeated in an acute and excited voice, bringing his hands together in a clap.

Promptly, he was up and running to cover himself with a silky coral robe that was hanging next to the dressing table. He rushed to the door, barefooted, with no makeup, his hair still tied in a bun, but none of that mattered before the information he just got. Patty gave him space to pass through the door, and the boy smiled gently to her.

"Thank you so much for letting me know, Patty."

The black haired girl took a little bow.

"It's my duty, Princess McCormick."

With a tender hand, the princess touched the servant's shoulder and approached her face, keeping the warm smile on her lips.

"You've been working with us for so long. How many times do I have to tell you to call me Marjorine?"

. . .

The princess dramatically entered the king's chamber, pushing the double doors and running breathless to Cartman's table, as the man comfortably reclined in his golden chair. The whole room (as a matter of fact, the whole palace of Kupa Keep) was festively decorated in golden and red. Colors of war, that's what Cartman said. As soon as his brown eyes met the princess, he let out an extravagant laughter, snoring loudly through the salon.

"Man. I forgot how fucking ugly you are without all the girl crap covering you."

He could laugh all he wanted. It wasn't important now. The princess' immensely blue eyes were filled with hope and joy. She rested both hands on that heavy table imported from somewhere over Europe, and stared at the king with impatience.

"What did they say about my brother?"

The letter from the elves rested on the table, right in front of Cartman. It was written by hand in parchment paper, the calligraphy was very elegant like every message that the elves had ever sent. But he didn't hand her the letter. On the contrary, he slid the letter aside on the table, out of her reach, then signed for her to sit down, which she didn't.

"Well, the elves indeed captured him. They want to know, since he is a McCormick, if we're willing to an agreement so we can have him back."

The princess was quiet at first. She spent some time on her feet, supporting her weight on the table, not looking directly to the king. Staring at nothing in particular, she considered the words she'd just heard, absorbing them. At last, she ended up obeying the king, sitting down the chair on her side of the table.

"What have they done to him?"

"Nothing. They're little fairies, princess, they won't hurt Kinny. I know Kahl. He thinks he's some sort of merciful goddess or some shit like that. He won't let them torture him."

"How do you know that?"

"We have history." This time it was Cartman who broke the gaze, more abruptly, grumbling to himself. The king took his fist to his mouth, biting his finger and leaning back on his chair as he stared to the paper over the table.

The princess never completely understood what he meant by that, and it wasn't the first time she'd heard it. "We have history", Cartman always said. She didn't ask him about it because she knew better than to push the king's limits. He had some ugly things in his past, the princess was aware, and he never talked about them; especially when it came to Kyle.

Lost in her thoughts, Marjorine began to fix the rebel hair strands that were falling from her bun, watching mindfully the letter that Cartman was keeping from her, guarding it under his big hand. She frowned and raised her gaze to the king, who seemed glad with the results of his plan.

"Now what?" She asked him.

The king took his hand away from the parchment, uniting his fingers in front of his face like some kind of mad villain, giving her a satisfied smile.

"It's all going according to what we planned. We need to keep the story that your brother told the elves. I'll write them back saying that I can hardly remember his face, that he abnegated his throne and that I could care less for his sorry ass. I'll even tell them that we'll cut his head off for treason if they send him back. That should make Kyle feel really sorry for him. And the more Kyle thinks of Kenny as some poor little renegade who belongs nowhere, the easier it will be for Kenny to get the stick and get the fuck out of there messed up faggy place."

"But they'll have no use for him. Why would they keep him alive?"

"Jesus fucking Christ, you tranny, listen to what I'm saying here!"

She narrowed her eyes, injured by his words, bringing her hand to her flat chest. But Cartman pay no attention to her gesture and simply went on:

"They're nice. A bunch of dumb fag hippies, if you ask me. They won't kill a man over nothing, a man who didn't represent any danger to them, who has nothing to do with the war. The more they believe this, the faster you'll have your precious little brother back."

Cartman didn't understand the connection between Marjorine and Kenny. Mainly because Eric Cartman was an only child, and a very selfish one, so he would never really understand the bond between two people who shared the same blood. But it was more than that. He couldn't understand it because for the eight first years of their lives, they didn't even know about each other existences. They were children of the same father, but different mothers. Kenny's family was very poor, while Marjorine's mother was a high society widow with whom Kenny's father had an affair for years. The romance resulted in a skinny little boy whose name was Leopold, who looked exactly like his father (just like Kenny), only much more effeminate. Everyone called him Butters. He frequented a different world than Kenny and Cartman, since his mother was rich, but when people found out that her child was the bastard of a poor married man, she was marginalized and considered a harlot. She died stoned in the public square.

Kenny's father brought Butters to live with his family so that the boy wasn't sent to an orphanage. Giving the circumstances, it was expected that the McCormick brothers (Kevin, Kenny and Karen) hated that intruder bastard boy. They barely could feed themselves and now there was another hungry mouth to feed. But somehow, things happened differently. Kenny and Kevin had a delicate and slightly violent relationship – nothing actually abusive, but it could be compared to the baby lions that fought and hurt each other while training to face the real wild world. So, with a boy his own age coming into the house, Kenny felt like his dream was coming true.

They became real brothers. Kenny was as protective of Butters as he was of Karen, especially when the boy started to dress like a girl and didn't accept to be referred to as "Butters" anymore. Well, except when Kenny did it.

Until that day, Kenny still called her Butters and Marjorine actually enjoyed it coming from him.

"Alright, Cartman." She finally said, getting up from her chair. "But if it doesn't work, that's it. You've been trying to take the stick from the elves for years. If your little plan fails, and God forbidden, if I lose my brother because of it, this war ends. Too many people have died already. You have to promise me that you'll give up on the stick if this doesn't work out."

"It's gonna work."

The princess held her breath for a moment, noticing the creepy sparkle in the king's eyes. It was ugly. It was cruel. Maybe she'd just gotten a sight of his soul for a second. The thought of it made her shiver. So she cleaned her throat and tightened the knot of her robe around her waist, letting the air out of her lungs in a defeated sigh. Marjorine feared for her brother's life and for her kingdom, but there was not much she could do. Especially looking like a boy as she did that exact moment. She turned around and left the room, hoping everything would be better after she put her makeup on.

Cartman, on the other hand, wasn't even paying attention to her anymore. He was too busy delighting over his victory, knowing that the elves had taken Kenny inside their castle. He was closer than ever to the stick of truth. Eric could feel it. It would work. It had to work.

. . .

Kyle was standing in front of the window with both of his hands over the windowsill, staring fixedly at something in the distance. He didn't even notice when Stan came from behind him, but it wasn't entirely his fault. Stan always moved so silently, it was part of why he was so great in the battle field. Only when the warrior's chin touched his shoulder and his arms involved the king's waist, like Kenny's arms had done, that Kyle realized he was there, so close. He shut his eyes closed and forgot how to breathe for almost a minute.

The feeling of Stan's chest on his back was always so comforting.

"What are you thinking about, your Grace?"

The king's breath was deep and intense, as if he had just now learned how to fill his lungs with air. The tightened his grip on the windowsill, his gaze fixed on the tower far away, where the prisoners were taken to. Then he scratched his head, looking down the hill's green lawn. Stan's hands traveled through his abdomen over the thick fabric of the king's coat, since he was out there in the especially cutting cold of the night until a few moments ago. The wind that came through the window made his face icy, but he didn't mind, because soon he would close that window and warm himself up under the covers of his gigantic bed, with human heat, father blankets and all he was entitled to.

And all he could think about was Kenny freezing on the floor, at the top of that tower.

Stan's hands were warm, he could feel it when one of them caress the nape of his neck as if trying to relieve his tension.

"You'll get sick if you stay here for too long." He said with a low laugh, but with actual concern in his voice. He pressed Kyle into his arms, trying to warm him up, so tenderly that the king turned into his embrace and laid his head on the warrior's chest and closed his eyes. So vulnerable. Oddly vulnerable.

The hand on his nape caress the side of his neck, then slid up to his iced gelid cheek, stroking it slowly to transmit the heat of his hand to Kyle's skin, protecting him. He wasn't sure what he was protecting him from, but that didn't matter. It never mattered, he wouldn't start questioning it now. His fingers went up to the king's iced ear, running his them through his hair as he covered the ear with his palm, warming it with his touch.

As his chin rested on the top of Kyle's head, Stan thought about the two of them. More specifically, how they knew each other their whole lives. Literally. And Stanley had been there for him, for every single tumbling, every skinned knee, every lost toy, everything that had ever made Kyle weep. Stan had been there when his brother got sick, when his mother died, when his father was murdered. Even when Kyle was little, he wasn't one to cry easily. Stan had always been bigger than him, stronger, tougher, more protective, but ironically he also had always been the one to cry and sob the most. Only for noble causes, of course. Stan had never been weak. He smiled as he reminded of the moments when a three or four years old Kyle told him that everything would be alright, ever so eloquent. Kyle told him that all dogs went to heaven when Stan lost his first pet. And the little redhead went with him every single day for over a month to the little grave in the woods where Sparky, The First had been put to rest for eternity. Stan's father had buried the dog there. Sparky, The Third was now comfortably sleeping in the carpet near the fireplace in that same room.

Yes. Big or small, Stan had been there for all the occasions when Kyle's heart had somehow been broken. Because he loved Kyle. He loved Kyle in the deepest and most selfless way one could possibly love another. That's why he had to ask:

"You really care about him, don't you?"

In just a second, green eyes met him with that typical aggressiveness. Yeah, Kyle's eyes were aggressive as fuck, no matter how his face looked. They pierced and invaded. This time, they were filled with accusation too, defensive, annoyed by the simple question. But the king didn't pull away from the embrace, he just faced the warrior – who reattributed with a calm stare – for a very long time.

"What are you talking about?"

"You know." He answered in a soft voice, his hand still caressing the king's face. Stan's crooked insuring smile was what kept him from stepping away, so they stood tangled to one another, submerged in a moment of silence and tension. Kyle's lips parted in doubt, trying to find the right words, but nothing came out. So Stan continued. "I know you."

"I don't understand what you're implying."

"There is nothing that you can't tell me, your Grace."

"Stan…"

He shook his head, feeling uncomfortable all of the sudden. His hands gently pressed against Stan's chest and pushed him away, since he had no space to step away without falling through the window. Stan obeyed promptly, not forcing any touch between them. He took a long step back, taking his hands off Kyle, and his mouth became a straight line instead of the encouraging smile that took place a few seconds before.

The truth was that Kyle was looking for an explanation for something that he couldn't understand, that he had been fighting all day to keep from coming to the surface, hiding this feeling deep inside his unconsciousness. There was no way to make Stan understand this if he couldn't understand it himself, but the funny thing was: Stan didn't even seem to want an explanation. There was no judgment in his eyes. But there was, however, some pain. And Kyle didn't know what was causing it, because Stan always looked at him with pain when he saw that Kyle was hurting. So the king couldn't figure out if it was his own sorrow reflected on Stan's blue eyes or if the warrior was somehow affected in ways that he didn't want to show.

"You can't keep anything from me, your Majesty. I'm sorry." He said, smiling once again, licking his lips anxiously. "I know you're thinking about him."

"How?"

"I just... Do." Stan said with a nervous laugh.

But Kyle didn't think it was amusing at all. He waited for something better, but at the end, it didn't matter. He should have known. He and Stan had always been connected like Siamese twins in some strange, inexplicable way. Both of them alone in that room… There were no boundaries, no barriers. There never had been, not between Stan Marsh and Kyle Broflovski. It was stupid of Kyle to think that Stan wouldn't be able to read him as if he was transparent. The king gave the warrior his back, feeling his cheeks burn in flush as he leaned to close the window loudly, then walked towards the bed and took his coat off.

"I don't want to discuss this right now."

"I never meant to start a discussion, my Lord."

"If you're suggesting that any feelings of mine are getting in the way of my better judgment, my good senses and my position about this war, Stanley…"

"Never." The warrior tried to get closer. "I would never say that."

"Because this thing that I'm feeling…" His voice faltered. Kyle shut his eyes closed for an instant, taking his hand to his forehead, smoothing his curls back. His face looked so beautiful when exposed like this, without any hair covering it. "I'm more prudent than that. He's a living being, exactly like us. He's from a different kind, but it doesn't matter. So of course I care."

"Forgive me, your Grace, but I really don't think this is about caring for him as a living being."

"Well, what do you want me to say?! Stanley, you are about to go and risk your life in a battle field, fighting among many soldiers because you know that one person's life means so little when you're committed to a great cause, a much bigger cause. My feelings don't matter. My soul, what I want, none of this matters. I can't afford the luxury of feeling something for a fucking war prisoner!"

Instead of replying him with words, Stan's strong arms wrapped around Kyle's alarmed body and pressed him firmly, covering his head with a protective hand so that the king would lay his face against the warrior's neck, in a clumsy but persistent way. He didn't let Kyle get away from his grip. The king didn't like to be confronted.

It didn't took long for him to melt into his warrior's arms, holding the bigger man's torso, feeling the heat of Stan's body lulling him, nestling him. He felt so safe. It never failed to impress Stanley how the king lived in constant state of alert, like a feline, so graceful and majestic most of the time, but so ferocious and savage when he had to defend himself. Stan promised that he would never be someone whom the king would have to defend himself from. Not while he could avoid it.

"I know that." He quietly whispered against the red curls of hair, inhaling his smell.

A silence settled in the room. A few feet from them, Sparky, The Third was rolling on the floor with his belly up, one of his ears fallen on the ground, his tongue sticking out. He was sleeping so deeply that not even the elves' little drama was able to wake him up. Sparky let out a soft grunt in his sleep, but they both just stood in silence for god knows how long. It just didn't feel necessary to say anything. They understood each other without the usage of words.

Kyle pressed his face gently against Stan's neck, slowly relaxing his muscles. There, he felt home.

So, he said:

"I can't stop thinking about him."

"I know." Stan repeated tenderly, smoothing his hair. And it killed him.


	7. Harder than ever

Kenny had started to dream again.

And most of the time they were very inappropriate dreams, making him wake up gasping for air, his heart pounding in his chest. It was probably the abstinence's fault. Kenny was the kind of man who lived for the root pleasures: drinking and fucking, two things he hadn't even smelled in a very long time. He wasn't counting the days, so he had no idea how long he'd been locked in there. But it sure as hell had been enough time for him to have erotic dreams about the things he couldn't have. Things he shouldn't even want to have. Forbiddance made everything even more tempting, naturally.

In his dreams, he could always feel the smell of orchids and the texture of the softest skin, white as milk. Sometimes, they weren't even clear images, but more of a blur of dangerously green eyes and wild hair, gorgeous scarlet curls, a magnificent contrast of the most beautiful colors in the world. Many times, he could only see him, but not touch him. Those were the cruelest dreams. Kenny could see perfectly the sinuous curves of those slightly open thighs, those long legs that would end in delicate feet rubbing slowly against each other, one of his knees provocatively bent, the trembling flesh of the inner part of his thighs making Kenny's cock harder than ever. And it would all end up in the soft cheeks of his delicious ass. It was so sinful, Kenny knew it. It was a sin to desire so intensely that divine creature whose body was so damn profane. It was a sin to want every piece of him. But there was nothing he could do to stop it, he was only a man. In that dream in particular, he could see Kyle lying on his stomach, his creamy skin contrasting with black sheets, his curls dancing over his shoulders as he turned his face to glaze Kenny with those tiger eyes, inviting him with his stare. His back was slightly arched to raise his hips up, supported by his elbows, his legs tight shut together. The lines of his body were so perfect under the light of the window, making his hair glow in golden and red. It was the most marvelous vision Kenny had ever had.

Kyle was a train wreck. Before him, Kenny could understand fairly well what he should or shouldn't do, but he had no control over his own body. Or mind, for that matter. In his dreams, everything was allowed. Kyle would always appear with the malicious smile of a devil, of someone who knows they're desired, but won't give in. Almost every time, Kenny would take him and prove him wrong. Mark his pallid and immaculate skin using his mouth and his hands, scratching his little neck with his beard, biting and sucking all he could as he entered Kyle's body in an almost desperate way, like some kind of animal. He would extract the most beautiful sounds out of the king's lips. He fucked Kyle like he had never fucked any woman or man in his life, because it felt so tight, so amazing and so forbidden. Their skins would join in sweat and come like they had been made for each other. Even though it was imaginary, it still was the most fantastic chemistry he had ever shared with anyone.

And then, Kenny would wake up. Alone, dirty and with a hard on.

But Kenny never complained. He'd always wake up wearing a bright smile for the free and harmless fun time that his brain would provide him with. Or at least the blond believed blindly that dreams could have no consequences whatsoever. This belief was due to the fact that Kenny hardly ever dreamed, so it was easy for him to forget the influence of the dreams even when one is awake. It was also easy to forget that a dream is a manifestation of the unconsciousness. The prisoner wasn't ready to find out what was hiding inside of him.

Anyway, the elves seemed to have something very strong against his sleep. He was abruptly woken up countless times in that cell. If it wasn't bad enough that he had to sleep on the floor or over a suspended wood board that felt very unreliable, he also was often deprived of sleep in every occasion the elves considered important enough. Being a prisoner definitely wasn't the life Kenny had dreamed for himself.

They woke him up from his wet dream throwing water at his face, see the irony. It was cold and unpleasant. He raised his torso, scared to hell, gasping for air and his blue eyes were widen in anger with whomever it was that had committed such impolite act. The man in front of him was the guard who usually watched his door, an elf whose hair was as blond as Kenny's. The guard hit his lance on the ground as a signal for the prisoner to get up; which he obeyed promptly, but not without letting out some low curses. The relationship between the prisoner and the guard was curious, to say the least. The elf's name was Bradley Biggle, a young and honest fellow who had served the castle for just a few months. He had been instructed not to talk to the prisoners. Ever. Under any circumstance. Especially those like Kenny, who tried to chit chat in any given opportunity. Of course, Biggle's silence didn't stop Kenny from trying. And most of the time, he would talk to Bradley for hours without getting any sort of response. But it wasn't necessary. Kenny was a very self-sufficient man.

Given the fact that Bradley never answered him, and therefore never gave him his real name, Kenny just called him "Mint-berry", because that's what the prisoner thought he smelled like.

"Goddamnit, Mint-berry! Was that really necessary?!" Kenny asked, clearly annoyed, rubbing his eyes to dry them.

As usual, no respond was given. Bradley pulled him up by the arm and started to handcuff him, ignoring all the confused questions about the situation.

"What on earth are you doing? Am I gonna receive someone? Jesus, Mint-berry, I've been here for fucking weeks and you still can't trust me enough to at least let my hands free? Have I ever tried to rip someone's head off or something? I've been nothing but courteous with you people!" He said chattering as drops of water ran down his hair and face, shivering with the freezing air that touched his wet skin.

It was only when Bradley started to push him, pointing the lance to his back and forcing him to move forward, that Kenny realized he wasn't receiving anyone. He was the one to go and pay a visit. And he knew the elf wouldn't tell him anything ahead of time, but he was so used to talking to himself those days. It was a healthy exercise to deal with the loneliness, trying not to go mad on daily bases. So he peek the guard over his shoulder as they walked down the stairs of the tower, and asked:

"Where are we going, dude?"

And to Kenny's most shocking surprise, after a few moments of silence, Bradley actually answered him.

"The king wishes to talk to you."

It was the very first time Kenny heard the guard's voice. And those words sounded like music to his ears.

. . .

All the few times Kenny had been taken out of his cell since he was captured, he had been dragged to a stinky little room to talk to the same angry French guy who would blow smoke on his face, speak spitting and threaten him with pointy objects. Christophe always interrogated him for a couple of hours, searching for sordid details in the little things Kenny told him, then he sent the prisoner back to his cell without letting him see or talk to anyone else. This time, things happened a little differently.

Since he was expecting the tiny room, Kenny was pleasantly surprised to be put in a wide room with big windows. It wasn't what you could call an adorable place, but it didn't stink, it had no smoke and it didn't make him claustrophobic. Even better: there was no bestial European man staring down at him like he was a cockroach. The guard sat Kenny down the only chair in the room, with his cuffed hands on his lap, and waited beside him vigilantly.

Not long afterwards, Kyle walked through the door in the company of a man who wore the same fancy kind of clothing that the king usually wore, giving the strong impression that he was an aristocrat. But Kenny had never seen the man before. It was a taller black guy, handsome as fuck, whose eyes were deeply black like he had only seen in animals, glaring at the prisoner very carefully. His look was peaceful, but penetrating, filled with certainty. This man was Token Black, and although Kenny didn't know it yet, he was the adviser whose opinion Kyle considered the most. The wiser elf in the king's concept and also one of his dearest friends. Both elves took a good look at the prisoner sitting in that chair, and Kyle frowned to the sight of the handcuffs, seeming discontent.

"Take these off." He said to Bradley.

The guard swallowed dry to the king's order, then glanced at Token, not exactly in question, but in worry. It was like he was looking for some kind of reassurance in the serene eyes of the man behind Kyle, but there was nothing there. Incapable of contradicting the king's words, Bradley promptly reached for the key in the pocket of his brown pants and freed the prisoner's wrists, which already made him feel like less of a prisoner. Kenny moved his fingers slowly, as soon as the cuffs were off, rubbing his hands unconsciously.

"Majesty. What a tremendous pleasure to see you again." The blond said in a complimentary tone, with a cynical smile dancing on his lips.

"I believe we haven't been properly introduced." The man behind the king said, stepping forward to raise his hand for a shake. "Token Black."

"Well look at you. It's always a pleasure to see an example of good manners, Mr. Black." And he shook the elf's hand with no hesitation, greeting him with a honest smile before letting go, reclining back on his chair and crossing his arms.

The three pairs of eyes in the room were watching him and it was starting to make Kenny a bit uncomfortable.

A long and impatient sigh escaped from the king's nostrils while the turned to Token, pleading with his green eyes, taking his hand gently to touch the other man's chest. Token had a large chest, Kenny noticed. He was damn strong under those nice expensive fabrics. The prisoner couldn't help but raise a brow in curiosity.

"Do you mind if I handle this by myself? I know you wanted to be here, but I'll call you when I'm over."

"Absolutely, your Grace."

Even before Token turned around to leave the room, Kyle's eyes landed on Bradley, but his hand was still touching Token's chest.

"You too, Bradley. Please. Leave us alone."

"Mint-berry's name is Bradley? Huh. How about that." Kenny said out lout, although he didn't mean to. He intended to keep the thought inside his head. Sometimes words just came out and he couldn't do anything about it. To his luck, every elf seemed to have been born with the natural ability of ignoring everything he said. They didn't even bother to roll their eyes and throw a comment like 'your jokes suck, pal'.

Superiority complex didn't seem to be an issue for the elves.

Even though the uncertainty hadn't left the guard's eyes, he nodded his head and followed behind Token to leave king and prisoner by themselves, obeying his orders. Of course, both him and Token would stay by the door to wait for any uncommon noises and talk about the stupid nickname Bradley had gotten from the prisoner. But the two men inside the room wouldn't know about this and wouldn't care either.

"What happened to your little puppy guard? Did you switch?"

"What?" Kyle asked him impatiently.

"You know, the pretty guy with the big sword. The one you carry everywhere you go. Your puppy."

"If you are referring to Stanley, he is traveling with our army for a battle with that fat excuse of a king that Kupa Keep has." He said quickly, giving Kenny his back. "And the next time you talk about him like that, or in any disrespectful way, I will rip your eyes off with my own bare hands."

Then Kyle started to step away from him, as soon as the door was shut behind them. He walked with his arms crossed to the closest window, watching the world outside with the attention of a child who's discovering it for the very first time. The sunshine coming through the glass and illuminating his ginger hair made Kenny slightly stitch on his chair, remembering the dream he had, how the light played over the king's naked body. That's when he started to realize that were consequences for dreaming.

Kenny wanted him so badly it hurt. It burned. But he did nothing about it. He just waited.

"Do you believe in God, Kenneth?"

The question took him by surprise. The blond found himself letting out a confused moan, narrowing his eyes while trying to understand the reason why Kyle would ask him such thing, not bothering to figure out how to answer. He smoothed his thighs, feeling the poor fabric of his pants under his palms, getting a little nervous. His hair was still dripping water.

"Uhn. No… No, not particularly."

Kyle didn't turn to look at him, not as he asked the question and not as he heard the answer, but he did turn his face a bit to the side. The blond bit his lips in precipitation, staring at the king's profile and wondered if Kyle was seeing God himself riding a unicorn coming down from the skies in a rainbow or something like that, to ask such odd question out of context.

It didn't take him long to understand that this had nothing to do with theology.

"Your mother, then. Do you have devotion for her? Is she the one you respect and love above good and evil? Is she your synonymous of peace and happiness?"

Now green eyes were glaring him, not with curiosity, but with demand. Eyes that intimidated him, but at the same time, sent a message that ran through Kenny's nervous system and went straight to his dick.

"I…" He licked his lips. "I love her indeed, but that's something pretty different from devotion."

"Who do you love with devotion, then?"

"What?"

The expression on Kyle's face said something like 'you fool child', in a mixture of compassion and superiority. The king rubbed his crossed arms with his hands, like he was feeling cold, as he approached Kenny's chair. The proximity made the prisoner swallow the saliva formed in his mouth and shrank in his seat, visibly uncomfortable. Kyle didn't get very close, just enough to disturb him – although Kenny wasn't sure if the king was aware of the power he had over him. The smell of orchids filled the air.

"We're all devoted to something, Kenny. That's our nature. We all have unconditional and absolute love for something or someone. So tell me: what would you give anything for? Who or what is the most important thing above all? Who makes you want to be a better person?"

Kenny gave those words a considered thought, letting them echo in his brain and be absorbed. Devotion? Unconditional love? It had been a long time since he had last understood the meaning of these things.

He tried to get up, but the king's disapproving face stopped him. He couldn't understand why he felt so submissive all of the sudden. Or maybe he did. The blond knew it very well, at least rationally, what was going on. He avoided the king's look and his voice trembled when he spoke because he desired Kyle and desire makes a man submissive. Cartman had warned him about it, so all he could do was punish himself mentally and hope for the best.

He considered the question. He didn't think he should actually tell Kyle the truth, because it was a personal question and giving personal information could bring nothing but more power to Kyle. But what on earth was the truth after all? Kenny wasn't devoted to his king, he wasn't devoted to any God and he had no one waiting for him anywhere. Oh, well, he had. But not for love. He wasn't a man of faith, therefore he was always waiting the worst of people. Having devotion meant giving your heart away to the hand of someone who probably doesn't deserve it anyway.

But he had done it once before. There had been someone who made him want to be so much better than the man he had become, and part of him was glad she wasn't around anymore to see that.

"Karen." He finally said.

Kyle raised an eyebrow.

"And who is Karen?"

"She is my… My younger sister."

The answer surprised the king enough to make him part his lips and take a hand to his chin to dab it slowly. Kenny had no doubt that he was trying to find a lie there somewhere in the prisoner's words, and that was no surprise. After all, nobody knew about Karen's existence. It was like she'd never been alive. And this thought hurt inside Kenny's chest more than he could say.

"Does she live in Kupa Keep?"

Kenny scratched the tip of his nose and sighed, unsure of how long he was willing to dig up that story.

"No, in fact… She died."

Blue eyes raised in search of a pity expression, or at least some sort of comfort in Kyle's face, maybe even some remorse for having asked. But the king's sculptural face showed nothing of the kind. Actually, there was nothing behind those magnificent green orbs, no compassion. It was a relief, somehow. If there was something that Kenny completely despised was being seen as someone worthy of mercy.

Kyle licked his lips and looked away. And there, the prisoner saw a small glow of something that he was trying to hide. There was, indeed, something in those eyes. The king just didn't want him to see it.

"What happened to her?"

"He died in a barricade. In the times of the revolution, a few years ago, long before the last king of Kupa Keep was taken off the throne. Karen wasn't even supposed to be there, girls weren't accepted. But… She always said that it was impossible to sit down at home and wait while her brothers risked their lives for a better kingdom. She used to dress as a boy and fight by our side. God, she was one brave little ass kicker. Her courage never failed to mesmerize me." Then he took a long pause, forgetting how to breathe for a couple of seconds. Then, he continued. "She was murdered by the king's officials."

It had been years since Kenny had spoken about it. He had never told this to anyone who didn't already know. It was something that would always be a part of him and there was nothing he could do, so it felt stupid to talk about it. People used to tell him to "put it out", not keep it to himself, because sharing things like this was supposed to be good for him. But it wasn't. Because there was nothing in this world capable of taking off his head the image of his baby sister covered in her own blood, her clothes stained in dark red as he held her cold and dead body against his chest and screamed his lungs out. Nothing would make him forget the feeling of her hair against his palms, thick in blood as he squeezed the back of her heavy head ever so gently, feeling the tear open in her skull, her brain mass running down his fingers. And nothing could ever change what he, Kevin and Butters had become after that.

They were what they were because Karen wasn't there anymore. Knowing this was unbearable because it didn't give Kenny the power to change anything.

He hadn't even noticed that the king had approached him. Now, he wasn't disturbed by (or couldn't even feel) the sexual energy between the two of them. He didn't shiver as Kyle penetrated him with his eyes. But he could feel the king's tender hand touching his shoulder as the redhead leaned closer to him, keeping his face close to look at him in the same level, like they were equals. Kenny wanted to say something clever, smart and witty so that he wouldn't feel so exposed, but he couldn't think of anything. It was like there was a giant knot down his throat.

"Listen to me, Kenneth." He said with a voice so soft it hurt. As one hand caressed his bonny shoulder slowly, the other one went up to the blond man's chin, forcing him to face up, locking their eyes together. "I need you to swear for your sister's soul that everything you told me is the truth. That you don't work for Cartman, that you have nothing to do with the war and that you are a good man. Can you do that? Can you swear for her?"

"I never said I was a good man."

A weak smile appeared in Kyle's lips. The blond couldn't help but smile back, in a slightly malicious way.

"You don't need to be a prisoner. You did nothing wrong by us. We need to be sure that you're not intending to. I am sure, in my heart." As soon as Kenny tried to look away, Kyle tightened his grip on the man's jaw, frowning. "You speak of your sister with love. Cheaters aren't capable of loving. I know you're good, I'm just not sure if you know it too. Swear it to me and prove to yourself that you are worthy of trust and forgiveness. Swear to me that you wouldn't be able to use the name of a beloved one to sustain a lie. Do it and I'll believe you with all my heart."

Their faces were so close that Kenny's heavy breath collided with the redhead's skin, so warm and intense, making it hard for him to focus. This wasn't the first prisoner that he had to deal with, naturally, but Kyle had never seen himself out of the control of a situation like this. The blueness of Kenny's iris was hypnotizing, it made him dizzy and shaky. And as rarely as he would let others know what he was thinking, it was like Kenny could sniff him like a dog. It was useless trying to hide things from the blond. The exact moment Kenny felt Kyle's legs vacillating, he didn't waste a second before shoving his body up to connect their lips in hunger.

It was a response. Not with words, but still, it was a response.

For the first seconds, the king resisted with every bit of strength he had. He tried to pull back, to straighten his torso and push Kenny away, but the blond man's hand pressed his neck to keep them close. The prisoner got up from the chair and attached their bodies, uniting his chest to Kyle's as much as humanly possible, holding him tight in his arms as his tongue started to fight for space between the redhead's lips almost violently. Keeping his eyes closed, the images of the dreams from last night started to pop in his mind, dancing in his head in such way that a heat burned deep in his body from inside out, forming a thin layer of sweat over his skin.

Kyle couldn't fight it back. Nobody could. Not giving the way Kenny involved his waist in one arm and took the other hand to his hair, gripping a lock of his hair between his rude fingers, pushing him back aggressively until the king's back met the wall. A grunt escaped from the prisoner's lips as he felt Kyle's body well pressed against the hard surface, putting his leg between Kyle's freely, touching him as he wished. The king didn't even try to resist anymore. His hands slid down the blond man's back filled with longing and nostalgia, showing perfectly well how much he had thought about it, just like Kenny. Maybe he dreamed about it too. It didn't matter, not at that moment. Because now it was real. Their tongues wrestled with craving, their lips met each other in anxiety, their teeth rubbed against the inside of their lips in a careless way, in a rushed kiss. Kenny took both his hands to hold Kyle's thin face, gripping his soft cheeks between his palms, half-opening his eyes to look at that beautiful face while letting out a moan against his mouth, pressing his tongue deeper, wanting to take all of him.

"I swear…" He whispered between the kiss, his voice so low as if he was telling a secret under his heavy breath. "I swear for Karen, I swear for whatever the fuck you want."

Kyle replied with a thin moan of satisfaction that only got louder when Kenny's lips slid down his neck. The prisoner's beard scratched the sensible skin as he sucked intensely, inhaling Kyle's smell, pressing his body against his own as if he wanted to invade him. And he did. He wanted it more than anything in his life.

The king caressed the back of Kenny's head, raising his chin to give his mouth a little more space to explore as he wished, trembling for the sensation of those hot and wet lips, his tongue and the saliva he spread all around his skin. Kyle needed to let go. He knew he had to, but his body simply wouldn't obey him.

Gathering every bit of willpower in his body, Kyle's fingers grabbed a lock of blond hair and pulled his head so that Kenny would pull away from his neck and look up. The prisoner did it reluctantly, staring at him with deep blue eyes full of lust, his wet lips slightly separated, craving to devour him.

"You…" The king said, trying desperately to recover his breath to keep his voice under control, but the tasked seemed to be impossible. His chest went up and down quickly and their bodies were still tangled to each other. "You are a free man now. You can go when you wish to."

Kenny's forehead touched the king's gently, while the tip of his nose slid across Kyle's cheek. It was a torture to the king, who closed his eyes and held his breath in guilt and excitement. Kenny's hands held his waist and pressed the covered flesh of his hips, and Kyle could feel by the touch of those palms how much they longed to feel his skin in the most sinful way. The blond shook his head negatively, kissing the corner of the king's mouth with his eyes still shut, so tenderly, breathing heavily against his face.

"I don't want to go." He whispered.

Both spent some time just like this, without moving a single muscle, smelling each other and feeling the heat that their bodies preserved in that clumsy embrace, not wanting to let go. Kenny felt Kyle's heart pounding in his chest. He could feel the king's confusion and doubt of what to do next. Staying like that didn't feel right, but letting go felt so much less. Anyhow, that's what they had to do. So Kyle let go of Kenny's back first, taking both hands to the man's chest, caressing it with hesitation before pushing him away.

"Very well." The king said, cleaning his throat as he smoothed his wrinkly clothes, getting back on his pedestal. "If that's your choice, you are welcome to stay. But you'll have to work, just like any other elf, and participate in our activities."

Kenny frowned, unsure of what that meant. He took a step back, watching as the king tried to get away from him as he walked to the door. But when he could register what was going on, Kenny reached forward to grab Kyle's wrist in his hand, stopping him from moving any further.

"What the hell is this? Are you seriously gonna pretend nothing happened?"

When the redhead turned around, his eyes could be catching fire, such was the anger they carried. For a moment, Kenny was sure he was going to be slapped again. And that's what he prepared himself for. But it wasn't necessary.

"Do not mistake my compassion with profligacy, Kenny."

"Oh, alright, so you kiss everyone you pity? Is that it?"

The king tried to pull his hand away from Kenny's grip, genuinely offended by the accusation, but the prisoner didn't let go. After another failed attempt, Kyle looked down to the firm hand that held his wrist, just like it had held his waist not more than a minute ago, and then faced the human with a challenging expression.

"I've told you, you're welcome to stay for as long as you want. But there are much delimited conditions. Not touching me is one of them."

Given the silence that followed those words, he pulled his hand away from Kenny once again, who this time let him go with relative easiness, a little distracted by what he had just heard. Kyle unconsciously rubbed his wrist, not looking away from the man. Then, he proceeded:

"You'll sleep in the castle tonight. I'm not sending you back to the tower, you're no longer a prisoner here. Tomorrow I'll find a place for you to stay permanently. Or… At least, for as long as you'd like. We'll find something for you to do, also. You're a strong man, you must be able to carry a lot of weight, right?"

Kenny just nodded his head, facing him with the same thoughtful expression.

"Good." The king said, turning to head to the door, giving Kenny his back. Just as he thought the conversation was over, the blond surprised him.

"Kyle, wait."

Reluctantly, he turned his face to Kenny with a frown.

"Yes?"

"Look, I... I know how freakishly complicated this all is. But since you seem to be in denial, let me just clarify this: I'm not giving up."

The king replied with a loud laughter, dramatically leaning his head back with the same old tone of an adult who knows best than the stupid kid who is saying absurd things. It didn't bother him, though. He continued:

"I fucking know you want me, man. You don't have to pretend to me. Sure, you're annoying, pretentious, have some anger issues, think you know everything in the world, you're a fucking snob control freak with no sense of humor, but for whatever reason it may be… I really like you. I… Really, really like you. You're smart, you know this ain't over. So you better deport my ass right back to Kupa Keep right now, because if I stay here, I'm gonna make you mine."

Kyle disguised his smile with sarcasm, trying to defend himself, but Kenny could see right pass that barrier. He could see exactly why the king was smiling to him. The shine in his green eyes didn't lie; he was happy. It came to the point where it became impossible to pretend. So he just shook his head and stood there, looking like a goof with the brightest smile on his face, showing those beautiful perfect white teeth.

Finally, he took his fingers to the red marks in his neck, licked his lips and simply said:

"You need to shave, Kenny."

Then, he left. And Kenny laughed harder than ever.


	8. All is fair in love and war

Ike Broflovski's favorite day of the year was the End of the Harvest. It was the elves' greatest tradition. At the beginning of every winter, they threw a feast to thank the gods for the season's fruits and make them proffers to ask for an abundant winter. Since he was a little boy, Ike waited anxiously for the carnival night that gathered the whole kingdom to dance typical songs, eat the delicious food served at the tents, practice archery, play games and celebrate life. At the End of the Harvest, all the elves were brothers and sisters. He loved the preparations, the smell of garlic bread filling the air, that would later be served with lamb meat, the fruity drinks, the wide smile that appeared in the face of every dweller. Rich or poor were concepts that didn't exist and didn't matter at the End of the Harvest night.

But that day in particular was even more special and Ike craved it more anxiously than ever. First of all, because it was also the day that the Elves' troops would return to their homes after a bloody battle. And Stan was okay. Ike would always run like a child through the castle's corridors when he heard the army was back, with his chest aching in agony, a pain that'd only saddle when he could lay eyes on Stanley and hold him tight in his arms. Only then, he would be absolutely sure that his friend was alive and well. Ike knew he shouldn't feel so afraid, especially if he ever wanted to be like Stan one day: he needed to be braver and understand that, in war, lives will be lost. But the simple idea of losing such close friend ripped a piece of his heart off and the boy couldn't pretend it didn't. He knew he wasn't the only one to feel this way. He could see it in his brother's eyes; the void, the fear, the emptiness that took place every time Stan went away in a battle. Because Stan was their family.

But that wasn't the only reason why Ike was excited. There was something very unusual about that night, and it was about to happen any second now. His brother, the king, would introduce a new citizen to his people. A citizen that, until not long ago, was locked behind bars for being considered a threat. Ike couldn't be happier to know that Kenny had been released. And he couldn't understand exactly what had made him be arrested in the first place, but that was something that no one seemed to bother explaining to him anytime soon. Nevertheless, Ike was happy that whatever reason the elves had to lock Kenny down, it wasn't important anymore.

For the last few days, Kenny had walked freely through the castle, but was still carefully watched with caution and distrust. Of course, the blond's charm and soft words would always make people lower the guard and talk to him. The rumors ran through the villages and the town, further beyond the castle's walls, and the elves were starting to get worried. So, a presentation was necessary. And it would happen at that night's festivity.

The carnival spread wildly across the elves' villages, that were all decorated and illuminated by beautiful paper lights hanged on their houses, while food was generously served in the streets and chatter was made, loud laughs of joy filled the air, children ran and played everywhere you could see. Mothers cut pieces of warm cake and gave them to drunken street men, bards recited poems over benches for the entertainment of those who passed by, young men gave flowers to unknown ugly ladies just to make them smile, musicians played on the sidewalks and boys invited girls of all ages to dance. Dogs barked and ran without restraint through the flowers, including Sparky, who never got too far away from Stanley.

Ike devoured hungrily the dumpling that Stan had gotten for him. The warrior had his arm and head bandaged, but he hadn't said a word about the battle yet. It didn't matter that the horror was still printed on his body, they wouldn't speak of the war that night. It was a time of celebration. The tragedies, the reports and the worries would still be the same tomorrow. They could wait.

"Don't you want to go meet your friends?"

The boy was distracted swinging to the song and watching the couples dance with a weak smile on his lips. He looked at Stan, processing the question, still chewing a bite of his dumpling.

"I'm waiting for someone."

"Oh." Stan smiled. "Is it a girl?"

"Nope."

He raised his eyebrows, his smile turning into a smirk as he elbowed Ike with his good arm.

"Is it a boy?"

The younger man laughed and gently pushed him away, careful with the warrior's wounds.

"Yeah, but it's not what you're thinking, you pervert."

"Oh god, Ike. Please don't tell me it's that human again."

"Don't call him 'that human'. Do you know how racist that sounds?" Ike said still laughing so Stan wouldn't take offense, although the adjective did bother him a little.

"Well, being human is the least of the guy's flaws, believe me."

"Why don't you like him?"

Stan shrugged.

"I don't know him."

"Then know him! Look, he's coming." He said emphatically, raising his arm as high as he could, looking to the crowd, jumping and screaming. "Hey, Kenny! Over here!"

The head full of golden hair got closer, as the blond excused himself with a seductive smile and pushed the elves to pass, finally emerging from the multitude. The delighted expression on his face didn't go away when he noticed Stan's presence, as the warrior watched him with no accusatory tone whatsoever. They both looked very calm and relaxed, but Ike could still feel the implicit tension in the environment. They were just pretending. And that was all Ike could ask of them.

The blond man's arm involved the boy's shoulders and tapped his back.

"Hey, kiddo. How you doing?"

Kenny was holding a glass bottle of colonial beer that was produced by the elves in a local liquor store, which he had heard about all his life but had never actually tasted. The legend said that it was the second best beer in the world, losing only to the Nordic dwarf's. Kenny would have never guessed that such delicate creatures would understand about the art of making beer, but oh how wrong he was. It tasted amazing. Just like he was starting to understand that he had been wrong about a lot of stereotypical presumptions about the elves.

He raised his glass to greet the dark haired man standing next to them, keeping the smile in the corner of his lips.

"Stanley. Almost didn't recognize you without your sword pointing to my face."

"That's okay. I barely recognized you now that you've taken a bath."

The blond let out a genuine laugh, not forced or defensive, but sounding like he actually thought it was funny. It could have been the beer, Stan didn't know, but it took him off guard for a moment. He didn't know what to make of it. In fact, Stan had no idea how to feel about any of that situation: he had come back from battle that morning and Kyle'd told him so naturally that Kenny had been released and that he would live in their kingdom from now on. Stanley, of course, didn't show any dissatisfaction about it because it wasn't his place. He'd known Kyle all his life: complaining and protesting would do nothing but irritate the king. And he didn't want to do that.

But he certainly didn't want a malevolent man walking among their people, talking to Ike as if they were friends. The shine of admiration in the younger boy's eyes disturbed the warrior very deeply.

He would give anything to protect Kyle and Ike, but until the moment came, he would remain quiet. It was Kenny who decided to break the silence:

"It's funny. I didn't know that such an immaculate hero like yourself was able to make a mean joke." The blond told him, pointing his bottle towards the warrior. "I like you better already."

"And where did you get that idea of me from?"

"Oh, I don't know. It must be because you always bath."

Despite his best efforts to keep a smile from coming to his face, the corners of Stan's lips didn't obey him. He didn't look directly at Kenny as he smiled to himself, looking down, unsure why. The human smiled back to him in contentment, taking a sip of his beer, enjoying the idea that the elves had to pay attention to what he said now, or else it would be too rude.

"So." Kenny proceeded, taking his arm off Ike's shoulders, stepping between him and Stanley. "You look like you got your ass pretty beaten. How was the battle? Was fatty there?"

Stan's dark blue eyes stared at him without that sympathy from seconds ago, filled with accusation. A look so rigid that contrasted with the pleasant energy around them; the party went on so smoothly that there was no place for sorrow and conflict there.

"I don't think that's any of your business."

Kenny raised his hand in defense, like he wanted to show that he was unarmed.

"Hey, I'm just trying to make a conversation here." And then, huffing, he turned to the black haired boy who had just finished eating and licked his fingers with no shame, watching the two men with big curious eyes. "Where the hell is Kyle anyway?"

A few moments later, Stan pointed in the direction of a small wooden podium built in the center of the square where the carnival was taking place. The three of them were a little far away, but the vision was good enough. It was possible that Stan and Ike had picked that spot precisely to have a good view of the podium in which the members of the board gathered around, and among them Kenny spotted a familiar red little head.

Then something happened. Something that Kenny had never seen before. From the exact moment the king stepped on that podium, being seen from every corner of the square, every single elf turned to look at him. The music stopped, the talks were interrupted, the dances were paused, even those who were chewing immediately swallowed their food to focus all their attention on the king. It was amazing how Kyle didn't need to lift a single finger, he didn't need to do anything other than show up and suddenly every ear was open, every head was turned to face him, every eye was replete of wonder.

And Kyle smiled to them.

The moonlight was shining so brightly for the elves that night, as if she knew they were giving thanks to the gods, asking for their blessing. It enlightened Kyle's gorgeous face, perhaps more than the lanterns hanging above their heads, making him look like this mythical creature that God himself had sent to give the terrestrials an important message.

And the message began:

"My people. As you all know, this is a night to be thankful. And I, for one, couldn't be more thankful for being here with you, being able to look every single one of you in the eyes, knowing that you are here, happy and safe from all the insanity in such difficult times of war. Because we can't forget, my brothers, we can never forget: as we give ourselves the luxury of celebrating life, there are those who fought and paid with their lives to keep us safe from harm. No one could understand this better than the families that aren't here tonight because they will spend the dawn mourning for their beloveds. Their sons, brothers, friends, cousins, uncles, fathers, boyfriends, husbands. As I held my dear Stanley this morning… As I felt him alive in my arms, I couldn't help but think of the mothers who waited so anxiously for their boys to come home… Who counted the days just like I did, only to find out that this return would never happen. And while my heart has finally found peace for having all my loved ones back safe and sound this morning, I could never forget that there are hearts completely destroyed by pain and lost. We've lost nine men. Nine young men who lived for their cause, that is our cause too. Most of them played with me when I was a child. Those were faces that I knew, faces that shall never be forgotten. Is there something I can do to relieve the pain of their families? I don't think so. I don't think there's anything that anyone can do right now. But here's what I can do that will offer some comfort for those who cry the lost of our men: none of them died in vain. I absolutely guarantee you that."

One of Kyle's hand was put over his chest, while the other one held the podium so firmly that it trembled, as if he was about to pass out if he let go. Kenny couldn't see it clearly, since he was too far, but he could swear there was a shine of unshed tears covering those beautiful eyes. His voice was full of passion, sorrow and hope, a mix so bitter, but that sounded sweet in the king's calm voice.

"I ask you to believe in peace. Search for it. Because at a night like this, in which we gather together here in gratitude for our food and our water, more than ever we can feel the love for our earth and our brothers. Our kingdom, constituted by my ancestors, was built with this unbreakable belief in respect for others. And I see it happen every day in our villages, our streets. I see it right here, this same night, how strangers smile to each other and offer their food to those who are hungry, no matter who they are. How strangers dance together, because we were all rocked by the same ballads. I want you to know, my friends, that this has so little to do with race. One of my closest friends and most faithful servants is a human, made of the same flesh as those humans that battled against our army yesterday.

Have no doubt about it: a lot of young humans died by our hands too, and I'm absolutely not proud of it. Because those boys' mothers are crying right now, just like our mothers, their pain is exactly the same. Do you know what this means? We didn't lose our soldiers to the humans, we lost them to this war. A war we didn't choose to fight, but we need to, for the greater good. I can't express how much I wish we didn't have to shed blood to reach this greater good, but this is not an option. So the least we can do, in respect for our dead and those who risked their lives, is to believe. And practice the good we know, the good we live for. Because if we won this war by cruel means, through betrayal and loss of values, we'd conquer a world that is no worth living in. What's the point of war after all? Of any war?

The point is to defeat those who intend cruelty and destruction. I don't believe in absolute good or absolute evil when it comes to people. I don't condemn the poor human boys who fought us, not even those who took our soldiers' lives, because no soldier is responsible for what we have been trying to stop: that the stick falls in the wrong hands. Those who follow the orders of the king of Kupa Kepp are, indeed, our enemies. And we will, indeed, fight them with all we have, because they are the ones who'll try to harm our people. But an oppressive king will always result in rebels who, even coming from the same kingdom and being of the same race, do not believe in the king's methods. A human who wishes to protect the stick from the malicious intentions of the Kupa Keep's king is not our enemy.

I know that a great part of you is worried about the unknown human who is freely walking among our own. Believe me, I understand. You fear for your children, for your kingdom. But keep in mind that no one will ever long to protect you more than I do. The human man who is living in our castle came from Kupa Keep indeed, but he is not our enemy. And I know that each and every one of you will realize this soon. For now, all I ask of you is a chance. Listen to him like I have, with your hearts and ears wide open."

Kyle's hand let go of the podium and rose in Kenny's direction as his deeply green eyes cut through the crowd and focused only on the blond. The lengthy fingers called him so gracefully that it took Kenny some time to realize what was going on. He looked at Stan with a confused expression, but all the warrior offered him was a short laugh that confirmed Kenny's fear. Then he turned to face the king once again.

Blue eyes widen in shock.

"Come along, Kenny."

"What? Noooo, no no no no. I'm fine, thanks, there is no need for that." He mumbled too low for Kyle to hear, staring at Ike with horror in his eyes. "Tell your brother to cut this crap."

The boy laughed louder than Stanley had and pushed him forward. Damn Ike.

In a lethargic state, with every eye in the world staring directly at him, Kenny dragged his feet fearfully to walk towards the king, cursing him mentally. The elves opened a path for him to pass, carefully stepping away from him as if he was some huge mountain lion. The cold air of the night seemed quite dense in the man's lungs. A man who was no longer a prisoner, but was still seen as one.

Time seemed to melt like a thick paste, getting gradually slower as Kenny crossed that corridor opened by the elves, feeling the gaze of citizens of all ages. Suddenly, instead of a mountain lion, Kenny felt like a circus lion: domesticated for the public's entertainment.

He tried to smile as he looked down, but the nervous smile turned more psychotic and scary than he had intended. A mother pushed her child behind her when the human passed by them. It hurt a tiny little bit that they thought so low of him, but how could he blame anyone?

Fortunately for him, it wasn't a long walk. Though his trembling legs refused to stop, Kenny was very frightened of what would happen when he got up there, having to face down all those people. He had never been good at speaking in public, which always surprised people, because he was nothing but shy. He could already see in slow motion what was about to happen: they would throw food on his face and screams of rage and hate would echo across open skies. Maybe this was what Kyle wanted, what he had planned. Give Kenny a lesson without actually getting his royal hands dirty.

But the smile in the king's lips didn't seem to hide any sort of sick amusement with the situation. He raised his inviting hand with the same grace as ever, offering to help him, and Kenny grabbed it harder than he should have, getting up on that stupid podium. He cleaned his throat and lowered his head in embarrassment, whispering to Kyle's ear:

"That the fucking hell are you doing?"

He could feel all those eyes burning on his skin, their agonizing expectations.

But Kyle's voice and the warm feeling of the king's hand on his arm freakishly calmed him down.

"Just let them know you."

Yeah, like it was that simple. That experience would test all the levels of bullshit that Kenny had trained and practiced for all his life. So he was praying silently with his hands together, maybe for the second or third time in his whole life, asking for a little bit of luck to any God that was willing to hear him.

Kyle stepped aside and let him alone with the elvish people.

"I... Hi. Well. Huh... Okay. So, this is a bit hard for me, especially after such… Eloquent, inspirational and beautiful speech. God. I should have gone first, so the expectation bar wouldn't be so high right now. My bad.

I guess what I can say is this: I didn't come here to fight anyone. I wasn't planning on fighting against you, but I sure as hell wasn't planning on fighting by your side either. I didn't want to be a part of this war at all, mainly because I didn't think there were a good side and a bad side. I was raised to believe that pretty much everyone is shit and you should expect nothing from anyone. I had been wandering around for a very long time. Years, I can tell. Then I got here because I was hungry. What I was expecting at first was to be tortured for information, and then left on a cell to starve to death. And… For men like me, it's hard to be scared of the possibility of dying at all, because I belong nowhere and nobody would even miss me if I was gone. I thought, 'oh, what the hell, let them have me'. 'Cause I had nothing to live for, nothing to believe in.

But things turned out to be very different from my expectations. You people gave me food, cleaned me up and gave me a chance to talk without hurting me. Well, I got my ass kicked by the guys who dragged me here, that's true. My eye swollen to the size of an orange, let me tell you, it was not a pretty sight. But it doesn't count, they had to bring me here and I was a little hesitant, I'll tell ya that. Anyway. You people cleaned my wounds, took care of my eye. By the way, is Pip here? Pip? Oh, is that you? Man, Pip is the nicest little fellow. Go talk to him, guys, he is awesome.

Where was I? Oh. Right. Okay, so, even when I was being interrogated by the delicate French flower that is Christophe, I wasn't beaten up or hurt in any way. Maybe some psychological damage, but hey, I grew up with an older brother. I can take it. What I mean is: when you actually see a society that lives by the common sense of non-violence and respect, coming from where I came from, it's just shocking. I have no doubt that an elf prisoner would never be treated that way in Kupa Keep. Believe me, guys, I know Eric Cartman. In fact, I've known him my whole life. Yep. I grew up with the fatty fucker. Now calm down, even when I was five I could tell he was a piece of shit. If he captured anyone of you, it wouldn't matter what you were doing when you got caught. It wouldn't matter if you had no relationship to the High Elf, no information about the war, you still would be tortured because that's what he thinks you should do to any elf. I know. It's gross. But it's what I was expecting from you.

I decided to leave my kingdom behind because… When the rebellion was over and Cartman took the throne, I had high hopes that his senses of leadership would be good for us. For our people. But no. Of course not. I didn't have the guts to bow to a king who… Had no fucking moral sense at all. And I've never made good choices in life, I'm not one to talk about moral sense, but even I knew that Cartman was a monster.

It's funny, you see. Our boy here, Kyle Broflovski, he and I didn't get along very well at first, for obvious reasons. How could we, right? But as the days passed by, I heard the way the men of the castle talked about him. Holy shit, the guards, Pip, Christophe, Stan, they wall spoke to and of him as if he was god or something. At least I didn't know people could have this kind of respect and… Devotion for someone who is made of flesh, just like everybody else. He is a fucking incredible elf. He represents something to be very proud of. He is… The expression of your kingdom. A representative figure of something that is practiced everyday by every ordinary citizen. And it makes me a little sad, to be honest, because I've always been proud of not belonging anywhere. I thought that, to be a part of something bigger, you'd have to compromise your values and serve to an oppressive bastard who would only use you and to whom your life would worth shit. So… To see a king nearly crying as he spoke of those soldiers who were lost, it fucking questions everything I thought I knew about being part of something.

I know you guys probably think I'm dangerous. And I can be, you know, it's something you need to learn if you want to survive in the woods. But only to those who will harm me, steal my things. Well, now I don't have things to be stolen, but you guys know what I mean. I'm not bad, I was just trying to survive. And if the guard whose finger I bit is down there somewhere, dude, I'm really sorry for your finger. I really am. But I'm not some kind of animal, even though I was living like one. I lived in a tree, man. People back in Kupa Keep always said I was a forest creature, that's where I should be, 'cause I wasn't civilized enough."

"And what the fuck is wrong with being a forest creature?! That's what we all are!" A man in the middle of the crowd screamed with anger.

Kenny tried to find him with his eyes, but there were too many people. They finally started to manifest, looking around and whispering to each other, some even shouted in agreement to the man. Before the blond knew what he was doing, his fist collided with the wooden surface and then his finger pointed to the elves in the crowd, to no one in particular.

"Exactly! Exactly, dude! And what the fuck is wrong with being a forest creature? What if I am one? Because many humans spoke as if that was something to be ashamed of. Well, if being a human to them means slaughtering whoever the king says I should, betraying everything I fought for in the revolution, being a hypocrite piece of crap who would kill his own mother to get some gold, then I don't fucking want to be human. I'd much rather live in a tree and hunt for my own food, eat what I plant and talk to the birds. But not all humans are like this. We're missing a sense of union, of community, yes. Back there, they are missing a good and fair leadership. The human people are slaves of Cartman's wishes, that doesn't mean they believe in what he's doing. And a king without his people is nothing. Believe me, I want to take that fat fucker down more than any of you. Because I've been there and I saw the hunger, the pain, the misery his people live in as he eats donuts in his golden throne. I can't ask you to trust me. But trust Kyle. He knows me."

Kenny had never said so much bullshit at once in his life.

But even though he couldn't fully understand why (maybe the elves believed so intensely in the good inside people that they were used to see things with eyes of innocence, or maybe they were just really into victimized heroes) they seemed to have believed every single word. And they liked what they had heard. The first clap came very shy, but Kenny could still see very well who did it: Pip Pirrup applauded slowly with a warm smile on his lips and that big dumb bowknot around his neck. His eyes were filled with joy. The second clapping, much more euphoric, came from Ike Broflovski. It wasn't timid nor silent, but full of pride.

It didn't take Kyle long to join them, and surprisingly Stan was the fourth one to applaud him, which naturally made a whole bunch of ordinary citizens to manifest. Soon enough, the whole kingdom clapped in a choir of cheer and acceptance: they believed Kenny's words. Of course, how could they not? He was a lonely ranger who belonged nowhere, was ruled by no one and came from a hapless kingdom. Kupa Keep's poor lost prince of miserable who renounced to all the gold to live on the woods in protest to the powerful man who oppressed his people. That's what the elves had started to see him as, and that's exactly what Kenny had to make them continue to believe in.

Kyle's thin hand involved his shoulder so tenderly, as the king's lips approached his face and kissed him on the cheek. The blond smiled shyly, looking away and bowing slightly in a thankful way for those people's enthusiasm that reached an unbelievable distance by this point. Women, men, young people, children, elderly, all applauding in joy and hope of better days: a man who could represent the end of the war.

Poor souls, Kenny thought.

But then, the blond turned his face to look at the people's king, who smiled so widely under the moonlight. He looked so happy with the elves' reaction. And before those bright green eyes and his radiant cheer, Kenny wished that all he had said was remotely real. He could feel the relief in Kyle's grip, because that had been the final stage of whatever plans the king had in mind. And Kenny's muscles relaxed too because it had been the final stage of his own plan. Soon, he'd be able to get the stick of truth and get the hell out of there. That's why he couldn't understand why he didn't feel happy.

At last, the king opened his arms and said:

"Now, we celebrate."

. . .

Kenny drank like a real king that night. As his mind dulled with alcohol, he carefully watched the elves around him, how they moved in ignorant tranquility, carrying the night on perfect oblivion. It was beautiful to see, actually. How Ike talked smooth and really close to a ginger girl who he had been staring at all night, finally offering her a flower. Young love was something that made even an old dog like Kenneth McCormick smile from ear to ear.

He also watched as Stanley, even with the bandages on his arm, pulled that peach pie Wendy Testaburguer to dance with him, holding firmly her waist with his good arm. She would drop that serious pose of hers and laugh like a little girl when Stan swung her ungracefully, bumping into other couples. Both of them touched each other with no malicious intentions whatsoever, laughing and having fun like the great friends they seemed to be.

Kenny watched as the poor made a line to hold and kiss the hand of Token Black, an aristocratic and neat man. Some of them would even drop to their knees right in front of him, holding his body with so much gratitude in their words and gestures. Kenny wondered what he had done of so special, but it probably wasn't anything grand: he gave them food, respect and a few tender words with a serene smile on his lips, making them feel valuable. He hugged children like they were his own. From a distance, there was another blond man watching the same scene. He was Gregory of Yardale, a smug bastard who Kenny disliked deeply because he was always staring at him like he was an ant or something. But the look on Gregory's face as he watched Token with the poor was indecipherable. It made Kenny shiver. The guy gave him the creeps.

When Token was done talking to people and went to look for something to drink, Gregory stopped him. They started to argue in whispers, the blond man seeming a little amended and Token's calm attitude irritated him even more. Kenny frowned. For a second, his eyes met Gregory's, who was staring directly at him. Kenny quickly looked away and turned to the other side.

He put his beer aside for once and approached the dancing couples, pushing a young lady that he had never seen before to dance with him, because he felt like dancing when he got drunk. And he was pretty good at it too. Not like Stan, who bumped into people and danced just for the fun of it, although Kenny found it extremely fun too: he was soon spinning with an old woman, changing partners each time a song ended, seducing every single one of them. Except for the nine years old girl who stepped on his feet when she asked for a dance, but Kenny was pretty sure she was seducing him. And he danced with her unaware of her mother's concern look. Moms had never liked him anyway.

Stan's itchy dog, Sparky, licked his boots and jumped around him, barking like a crazy animal, but soon enough he ran away to look for his owner, ever so faithful to the warrior. It was like Sparky felt guilty for liking someone who Stanley clearly didn't.

Kenny watched Pip, who clapped his hands in the song's rhythm and watched the couples dancing, and the little British man waved at him between one dance and another, but kept his distance timidly sitting on a bench with a little bag of nuts over his lap, eating them with a smiling face and sharing them with the kids who passed by him.

Of course, Kenny only saw all those scenes because his eyes were constantly searching for a certain redhead who had disappeared all night. When his dance with the nine years old was finished, he messed the beautiful curls of the freckled little elf girl and excused himself. He went to the closest tent to ask for a bottle of the finest scotch, feeling like he was going to need some liquid courage before doing what he was about to do. Then, reeling as he walked, Kenny dragged himself towards Stanley. If anyone would know where Kyle was, that would be him.

"Hey, pal." The blond called with a stuffy yell under the loud music, while Wendy tried to mask her surprised look and involved her arm around Stan's, glaring the human in curiosity.

Stanley frowned, not even trying to mask his own mistrust.

"Yeah?"

"Excuse me, darling." Kenny said, winking at Wendy before putting his firm hand on Stan's hurt shoulder, making the warrior shrink under the careless touch. But Kenny ignored it, getting his face closer like he was about to tell Stan a secret, taking some time to process the words that would come out of his mouth. Stan could smell the alcohol on his breath. God, he was so drunk. "Where… Where… Where is Kyle?"

The blond man's sober side warned him that he had just said something very stupid. He could sniff a jealous man from a good distance. It was easy to recognize because Kenny was, himself, a very possessive man.

And Stan did twitch his face in a disturbed expression. Well, it was very dark and Kenny was very drunk, so he couldn't see it properly, but what he saw indeed was that the warrior wasn't happy about his question. Now it was done, complaining would do no good. Kenny took a long gulp of his drink, taking his hand off Stan, who sighed in relief.

At last, after a moment of hesitation, Stan pointed towards a restaurant. They had used the kitchen of that restaurant to prepare the meals for the big night, Kenny knew that much, but now it was late and the kitchen was supposed to be closed. No one was working anymore, everybody was out on the streets, heading to the end of the night. Kenny shook his head.

"What the fuck is he doing in there? There's no one there!"

Wendy's dark eyes went straight to the ground when Kenny gave her a quick glance, but soon he turned his attention back to the king's right hand, who shrugged uncomfortably. Stan was also a little bit drunk.

"Look, I wouldn't go there. He's with Christophe." The warrior finally told him.

The blond man's lips parted almost unconsciously, not quite in shock, but as if brain was taking some time to absorb the information and had suddenly shut down. Damn scotch. It was all the scotch's fault. Kenny's blue enlarged eyes went back to the restaurant as he processed what he had just heard from his archenemy, finally getting what Stan had just insinuated. So he closed his mouth and twitched into a thoughtful pout, frowning.

With no more delays, without saying thanks or goodbyes, Kenny's legs started to function before his brain could. And they took him directly to the restaurant.


	9. The inappropriately drunken prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is the tiniest amount of blood here. Watch your steps and be careful, I don't want you to pass out.

Kenny's drunken body pushed through the restaurant's double doors before he could even remember how to use his hands. It was dark inside. A bit of Scotch spilled from his bottle to the floor, but he had no time to worry about waste. He had his hands clenching fists of rage, one of them holding the glass bottle a little more tightly than it should.

"Kyle! Where the fucking hell are you?" He shouted, cleverly checking under the tables just to make sure he wasn't hiding there.

Bumping into chairs on his way to the kitchen, the blond shouted bad words and cursed until the fifth generation of the trees cut to make those stupid chairs that seemed to be all over the place. Gosh, it was so inconvenient. Kenny felt like he should save his rage for what was about to happen. Far away, the musicians went on playing their songs, like nothing was happening, but oh, shit was happening. The lanterns' light came through the restaurant's windows in orange beams, lightening the way that took the blond man to the kitchen's door, which he opened as gracefully as he had opened the front doors.

Reeling into the kitchen, he found Christophe. And he was shirtless.

And damn, he was beefy.

The room was poorly illuminated by wall candles, but Kenny could see perfectly well the muscled sweaty arms of that Frenchman, his bulging veins, his large chest hard as a rock. It wasn't necessary to touch it to know how hard his chest was. In fact, no matter how cold it was, every time Kenny met the guy, he was barely dressed. It was like the man's body temperature was insanely hot or like he had a serious allergy reaction to shirts.

And to Kenny's relief, he was alone. The Mole didn't even bother to turn around and look and him when the blond entered the kitchen calling for the king's name, staggering with a bottle in one hand, gesticulating with the other, pointing his index finger in a sort of moral lesson.

"Where is Kyle? Where is he hidden? He can't hide from me!"

The Frenchman replied with a low grunt, and it took the blond a while to realize the grunt wasn't actually a reply, but an inevitable expression of pain.

So Kenny shut up for a second and just stared at him, soon understanding what was happening.

Christophe had one of his legs supported by a chair stolen from the restaurant, and firmly rested his arm on his thigh with his palm facing up. He sweated and shivered at the same time with his torso leaning forward, completely focused on what he was doing. There was a lot of blood running down his arm, staining his pants, dripping on the chair seat. His free hand roughly pulled a needle attached to a very thin thread, and Kenny slightly twitched in comprehension: that thread partially closed up a very extensive injury on his arm.

"Dude. Are you okay?" Kenny carefully questioned, slowly approaching the Frenchman. He hiccupped and ran the back of his hand over his mouth in a very drunken manner. What Kenny saw afterwards made him widen his eyes in a mix of horror and wonder. "Holy crap, are you stitching your own arm?!"

"What does it look like?"

"Wow. That's… Awesome."

Kenny pressed his hand on the counter to support his weight and took a long gulp from his bottle, feeling the liquid burn his throat on the way down, and then clumsily rested the bottle on the marble surface, making an awfully loud noise. Using both hands to boost himself, taking a long and sufferable time to get it right, Kenny sat on the counter next to his Scotch. He raised his index finger to The Mole, who hadn't even bothered to look at him.

And who could blame him? After all, he was giving stitches to his own arm; sticking a needle into his torn flesh, passing a thread through his thin skin and pulling it in zigzag while thick blood soaked his hand, his arm and his clothes. The poor guy trembled to hold deep inside of him a moan of pain in the presence of a man to whom he defiantly didn't want to show any weakness. But it was impossible. Kenny couldn't understand how he wasn't screaming. It was painful to even watch.

Straightening up and taking a deep breath, Christophe let go of the needle for a moment to wipe the sweat off his forehead with his good arm, sullying his skin with the blood that ran down his hand, quivering. Grunting like an injured animal, he went back to his work under the other man's attentive blue eyes.

"Okay, don't get me wrong here. I always knew you were really macho. You made it very clear the first time we met. But damn… You're the manliest motherfucker I've ever seen, no kidding." Kenny said, dazzled like a little boy, watching the scene in morbid fascination, narrowing his eyes in agony every now and then, sipping from his bottle.

The sound of pouring liquid got The Mole's attention, bringing him to finally raise his gaze up to Kenny, spying on him like some sort of hungry bear. The Frenchman cleaned his throat to keep his voice under control.

"Is 'zat Scotch?"

The blond naively nodded his head with a proud smile, taking more than a few seconds to understand the undertone in Christophe's words. Only when The Mole let go of the needle once again and reached out impatiently, Kenny finally realized what he wanted.

"Oh, shit. Yeah, of course, take it. You need it more than I do."

Christophe poured the whisky in his mouth like a man on the desert craving for water, spilling pat of the liquid down his chin and neck, even getting some of it on his sweaty chest, but he didn't care. He wasn't a neat man, that had been established already. The alcohol's ardency was just what he needed to get the job done. He put the bottle on the counter instead of handing it back to Kenny, who didn't seem to care, and went on with a heavy sigh, carefully holding his breath before continuing.

"You…" The blond tried hesitantly. "You got hurt in the battle?"

He couldn't help but notice that was the only visible wound on the Frenchman's body, and since he was standing there shirtless, he could see a whole lot of unhurt skin. He had a lot of scars, but those were old ones. Christophe nodded his head distractedly, and Kenny had the feeling he was winning over the man's tiredness. The French probably believe that, giving the blond what he wanted, he would just leave him alone.

But that wasn't quite the case.

"But I thought you were an interrogator or some shit like that. Why did they take you? Do you capture humans on the field and torture them for information?"

A restive and deeply annoyed sigh escaped from The Mole's nostrils. Then he raised his eyes briefly with an expression that said 'are you retarded?', but soon he was focusing on sticking the needle in his arm again, gasping for air to handle the pain. He was almost finished. Kenny patiently waited as the man pulled the thread one last time, groaning out loud in sorrow and relief. Christophe gave it a tight knot and then cut the string with his teeth.

It was impressive.

At last, he replied:

"Non. Of course not."

Then he dropped his weight on the chair, practically melting all over it, closing his eyes. His arm was still throbbing in pain, but it had almost stopped bleeding.

"How did you get hurt?"

"I was bitten." He mumbled with his eyes closed.

There was an awkward moment of silence followed by Kenny's hysterical laugh. He had no idea whether Christophe was being serious or not, but it didn't matter. It was an excruciatingly funny image anyway.

"Man, I know it's all fair when it comes to war, but there should be some kind of rule against biting your enemy."

"It was not an enemy."

"What?"

Christophe went silent, except for the long and heavy breaths he took. Kenny was pretty sure that, if he pushed a little further, he would end up with that needle stuck in his eye. But he couldn't help it. The questions practically came out on their own.

"What do you mean? An elf soldier has bitten you? And why the hell do they take you anyway? And why are you stitching your arm? Don't they have specialized people to do that for you? That's sick, man."

"Kyle is not 'ere. He already left." Christophe grumbled under his breath, taking one hand to his forehead to rub it slowly, lowering his head. He was slightly dizzy. "Just… Leave me ze fuck alone."

The blond raised an eyebrow in surprise. Curiously, his confused brain had even forgotten that he had entered that kitchen to look for Kyle. The shock of watching someone sewing up their own arm had taken his mind completely off the king. His head had started to spin and he wasn't sure if he could get down of that counter without throwing up and passing out. Christophe would certainly let him die drowning in his own vomit, if that was the case.

So he decided to remain sit.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to piss you off. I just thought… It was really badass of you, that's all."

Both men spent some time emerged in silence. Kenny rested his head against the wall and had his eyes half-open, facing nothing. Christophe, on the other hand, had his head down supported by the hand that covered his eyes. A couple of minutes went by without them actually realizing time was passing, giving that they were both too deep into their own thoughts. Suddenly, Christophe lifted his head and gave out a loud sigh, scratching his jaw and then reached for the bottle of Scotch to take one long last gulp. Kenny didn't complain about it.

Letting the glass bottle roll on the counter, which made a loud noise against the marble that they both ignored, Christophe decided to give in a little bit.

"'Zey took me to 'elp with ze injured."

Kenny took some time to process that they were the only two people in that kitchen, and therefore The Mole had to be talking either to the blond or to himself. Kenny looked around just to make sure. Then, he faced Christophe with confused eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"I... I'm good with chaos. So 'zey take me with 'zem to give stitches, clean ze wounds, throw alcohol in 'zem. I don't feel sorry for ze injured. I do what I 'ave to do. Ze scrams don't bother me. So 'zey take me with 'zem."

An amused smile danced on the blond man's lips. He wasn't sure why he was smiling, but there was something so entertaining in Christophe's honesty and, in some level, his frailty too. He rubbed his chin more theatrically than he intended to, figuring that all those words had only come out because the French knew how to thank a man for sharing their Scotch. It was some sort of male ethics and men as primitive as Christophe knew how to respect those things. Kenny knew they had so much more in common than he would have guessed at first sight.

"And someone bit you?"

"It was some poor bastard. A kid." The reply came lower and huskier as he got up the chair to grab a cloth, one that didn't look very clean to begin with, and used it to absorb the blood. "It was ugly. 'Is leg looked like minced meat. Ze doctor 'ad to amputate it, but we didn't 'ave anything to anesthetize ze boy with. So 'e needed something to bite."

"And you put your arm in his mouth?"

"Someone 'ad to."

"And there wasn't any… I don't know, piece of wood or leather strap you could have given him?"

"If 'zere 'ad been, do you seriously 'zink I'd be 'ere stitching my arm?"

"That's a good point." Kenny said as he grabbed the empty bottle and pointed it to Christophe a moment before sticking his tongue out, trying to get the last few drops off the bottle. Realizing there wasn't any left, he stopped. "So. Why were you sewing that bite on your own?"

"I don't like to be touched."

"In general or just medically?"

Christophe shook his head like Kenny had just asked him what color the sky was, turning to the side and supporting his arm over the wooden vat on top of the counter, reaching for a glass filled with water to pour the liquid over his injury, frowning in sore. His muscles slightly twitched, but the pain he showed was nothing compared to the one he was feeling a few minutes ago.

And that's when Kenny saw an open door: an opportunity he would probably never get again. He wasn't quite sure what God intended by sending him a slightly drunk and weakened Christophe, but he figured it would be stupid if he didn't try to find out. There was something in the Frenchman's brown eyes that made Kenny believe his weakness had so little to do with the pains of the flesh. It was much more complicated than that.

Before he could say anything, to his surprise, The Mole turned to face him and said casually:

"You gave quite a speech out 'zere. You know, for a man who can't speak in public."

"Oh, you heard that?" He replied while rubbing his neck, a little sheepish.

"I certainly did. Ze whole kingdom did."

"Okay, so let me guess. You don't believe a single word I said, am I right?" The blond asked with a smirk, stretching his leg to poke Christophe with his foot.

Which had been a mistake.

A severe mistake.

He got that just by way the Frenchman looked at him. No words were necessary.

The funny thing was: under all that thick shell of protection, Kenny still believed there was a gentleman somewhere in The Mole. It was probably his French accent that did the trick. Anyway, Christophe threw some water on his own face and shook his head like a wet dog, snorting in response and then just ignored him. Kenny was glad that his foot hadn't been yanked off. He liked his members attached to his body.

The man walked to one of the cabinets and pull out a ceramic cup from the shelf, blowing off the dust, and then he poured on it some of the old coffee that had been made that morning. He ran his tongue over his upper lip and peeked the blond through the messy strands of hair that fell over his deep brown eyes, sniffing as if he was sick. And he probably was sick indeed, giving how his body was constantly exposed, even in that cold-ass weather. The winter was rigorous that year; the leafs had already fallen, leaving the trees naked and soon they would all be covered in snow. Some of the elves had told Kenny that in the grove they had the most marvelous view: the frozen cascade and the forest covered in a white mantle. He had heard it was breathtaking.

Christophe took a sip from his black bitter coffee and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, cleaning his sore throat. Maybe the infection had gotten him a fever, he didn't feel very well. The silence started to get uncomfortable and the effect of the alcohol wasn't striking him as hard anymore, so Kenny smiled to the ground and tried his best:

"You know, they compare me a lot to you. I mean, they use you as an argument not to chop my head off. They say they wouldn't want to make the same mistake they made when you got here." And then he waited for a response, but The Mole didn't give any. So he continued. "How long have you been here?"

"I'm not sure." He mumbled with his lips pressed against his cup, distrustfully. "Two years, maybe more."

"Oh. Only two years? I don't remember seeing you back in Kupa Keep, and I knew pretty much everyone. In the times of revolution, I mean. You were involved, right? You French people love this sort of thing."

"You xenophobic ignorant. Non, I left five years ago, when ze revolution first arose. But I've only been 'ere for two."

"Were you running away from poverty?"

"Not exactly." The Mole sniffed again, putting down his cup. "I served my time for ze deposed king's guard. I was a mercenary. When sheet went to 'ell, I took off."

Kenny's head was still light from the alcohol, and that made him so sure he hadn't heard right. He frowned and leaned his torso forward to get closer to the Frenchman, as if trying to hear him better, even though he wasn't speaking anymore. Kenny's fingers rose to his chin, scratching it slowly while he was thinking hard. He had finally shaved and now his skin was smooth as usual.

"I'm sorry, did you just say you served the castle that time? Holy shit. I mean, Cartman was a soldier for him too, but that's sort of understandable. As bad as Cartman is, the previous guy ate little children. It's no surprise the elves wanted to kill you when you got here. Anyone who killed for that man is no better than a rat. Well, not that you're a rat, but…"

"But I am."

His blue enlarged eyes studied The Mole's position carefully, and once again he felt like they were two animals instead of men, each one facing his opponent. Every single hair on his body was standing on end, defensive, although he was perfectly aware that he didn't stand a chance. He would fall flat on the ground if he even tried to get down the counter. Standing still, nearly mobilized for a couple of seconds. His lips parted in shock, letting out the strong smell of all the booze he had been drinking that night.

"What does that mean?"

"I 'zink you know." Christophe replied with a malicious tone, much different than his usual threatening position. He took one last sip of his coffee, finishing it, then dumped the cup in the wooden vat along with some other dishes. "Ze elves are different 'zan us, Kenny. 'Zey are good in nature. Artful, cunning and so, so elegant. Very intelligent too. And very kind, which, as we both know, affects anyone's better judgment."

"So they weren't good judges of character when they took you as one of their own?"

"Probably not. Just like 'zey are making a mistake by clapping for a little rat like yourself."

By now, their gazes were penetrating each other: both pairs of orbs had the same fleeting glow representing the wild thoughts going through their minds and the adrenaline rushing through their veins. Nobody moved. Christophe licked his lips and broke the eye contact, studying the blond man from head to toes. He wore clean clothes, offered to him by Kyle's very own hands, The Mole was certain. He itched his nose and took a deep breath, annoyed by that conversation.

"It's your right to believe that." Kenny finally responded, turning his gaze to the floorboards. "But it doesn't change anything, does it? They've accepted me. You're just gonna have to deal with it."

"Oh, I intend to."

Kenny simply raised a brow in questioning, mistrusting those words. There were plenty of knifes in that kitchen and he couldn't relax when he thought of them, even if Christophe had only one good arm. He couldn't remember if the fucker was right or left-handed.

"How?"

Slowly, the Frenchman's heavy boots were making the floorboards creak as he stepped closer and closer to the man sitting on the counter. Kenny considered pulling away, but his body felt so heavy and he got to the conclusion that he should stay exactly as he was, with his back resting against the wall, watching as that muscled huffing beast dangerously approached him.

"Listen to me, you blondie little fag. I respect ze elves. I even care for a good part of 'zem. But do not be dumb enough to mistake me with one 'zem. Because I am not kind. And I know you're not kind. 'Zere is nothing kind about 'uman nature. We're rotten on ze inside. Our race is nasty, mendacious, tricky, lying and bloodthirsty. You know it as well as I do 'zat your fat little king is a perfect portrait of 'umanity. But Kyle doesn't know 'zat." The Mole's hand, covered in blood, held Kenny's collar and pulled him roughly closer. The blond's floppy body followed his grip with no hesitation. Christophe's voice was dense and husky, spitting on Kenny's face as he spoke. "What I did to my arm impressed you? You 'ave no idea what I can do. I'm a fucking ugly person, McCormick. 'urt Kyle and you'll find out just 'ow much, in ze most painful way I can 'zink of. I'll mince every little piece of you, I'll peel you like you're a fucking onion. And I'm not saying 'zat like you Americans threat to kill someone when you'll only beat 'zeir ass. I mean it. I will kill you."

"Fuck, Christophe. I care about him. I don't wanna hurt him."

"But you will. Men like you and me always end up hurting people like Kyle eventually."

Finally satisfied and obtaining no answer, Christophe pushed him back against the wall as hard as he could. The blond felt his head bump against the hard surface and tried to support his torso resting his hands on the cold marble of the counter, feeling his head spin a dozen times. His drunken eyes stared at the Frenchman until he had left the kitchen, showing no fear, but demonstrating his comprehension instead. Kenny was drunk, yes, but he wasn't stupid. He wouldn't make any promises he couldn't keep. He had lied enough for one night.

Christophe had seen right through him. This was concerning, to say the least.

. . .

"Hey."

The king turned around to the sound of that soft voice echoing in the cold night air. As the dawn approached, the night seemed to get chiller and chiller. Kyle was dressing a heavy coat made of navy blue velvet, which made him almost invisible in the dark, if it weren't for those bright red curls of his. That hair could be seen from space. A smile showed up on his lips, the kind of smile that came so naturally to shine in the lightless woods where he stood. Kenny could swear that, anytime soon, that smile would make his heart stop beating in his chest. As tacky as the thought was, it felt real.

The blond approached him, diverting trees, keeping his hands in his pockets. His walk was wobbly, giving away the fact that he had drank one too many. It had been a fun night, worth every drop. Kenny smiled too, his teeth shining under the moonlight that hid shyly behind a cloud.

The kids had already been tucked in, but the grownups carried on with the festivities like there was no tomorrow. The songs were calmer and played lower, serving as background to small talks and toasts, slow dances of passionate couples, declarations of love whispered to the ear, friendly hugs… All kinds of innocent interactions of drunken and happy citizens, and they all happened a little far away from both men who stood in the middle of the woods, distant from all the chaos.

"I've looked all over for you." Kenny said with a low laugh, crooking his head.

"This was a night for fraternization. There's always someone looking for me, which makes it so hard to find me." Kyle replied in a gentle tone.

"So I guess I should grab the opportunity, since I got lucky."

"And how are you going to do that?"

The blond man walked towards the king with no rush, reaching out for him, hiccupping and then laughing because he knew he was about to make a fool of himself. Kyle raised an eyebrow, not quite understanding what his intentions were, but watched his moves with a smile of amusement.

"Shall we dance?" Kenny mumbled as soon as the king grabbed his hand, taking his other arm round Kyle's waist, pulling him closer.

"I don't think so." He said while shaking his head, barely containing his own shy laugh.

"C'mon, your Majesty. Dance with me a little, would you?"

He rested his chin lazily on Kyle's shoulder, and the redhead laughed because he knew Kenny wouldn't be able to dance even if he wanted more than anything in this world. He could barely stand still. It didn't seem like there was anyone observing them, although Kenny had learned by that point that those sneaky guards were always keeping an eye on him. But he felt comfortable enough to squeeze the king's warm body against his cold one.

"I've danced with a lot of pretty girls tonight, you know." He whispered to the redhead's ear, setting a shiver down his spine, feeling his covered back under the palm of his hand. He held Kyle firmly in his arms. "But you were the only one I wanted."

"Too bad I'm not a girl."

"That's not bad at all."

Kyle's laugh didn't get any lower when Kenny started to move ever so uncoordinated, letting the blond carry him on a clumsy and foolish swing to the sound of the distant song. Kenny stumbled between his feet, pushing him back and forward for a few seconds, and it was somehow adorable. It came to a point when Kyle realized he was doing it on purpose, exaggerating his own gaucheness, so he hid his face on the blond man's neck and mumbled:

"Stop it."

But there was no authority in his voice and he hadn't stopped smiling, Kenny could feel it against his skin. So he didn't stop it. Kyle had to push him away, as tenderly as he could, before they brought any attention.

He stepped back. But his hand was still tangled to Kenny's and the blond's body was still swinging distractively.

"I've missed you." Kenny said in his best wooing tone, the one he had used with every single pretty girl he had ever conquered, the same girls he had lied to all his life. But right there, under the protective moonlight that was peeking through the clouds, under the caring shadows of those trees, he was telling the truth. He had never said anything so truthful in his life. And Kyle saw it in his crystal bright eyes.

"I've told you, you can't touch me." The king said without making any move to let go of his hand.

"And I've told you this won't work. You'll have to lock me up again."

Kyle hated how easily Kenny made him smile. Looking around, hesitating for a moment, the king's expression went serious and he suddenly pulled the blond to walk along with him, following the stone path that leaded to the castle's garden. He dragged Kenny's drunken ass like he weighted nothing.

It took the blond some time to realize what was happening.

"Kyle. The party is to the other side."

"I know."

"So what are you…?"

"If you're going to make a scene, we need to be alone. Everyone's on the streets tonight, the castle is almost empty. Come on."

Kenny was a few steps behind Kyle, so the redhead couldn't see the big smirk on his face. But it was there. Oh, it was there.

. . .

Kenny put his arm around Kyle's shoulder with the lame excuse that he needed help walking in a straight line, and even though Kyle knew exactly what he was doing (it was impossible not to know, giving that goofy smile on his face), he let it anyway. The heat of Kenny's side hug was almost pleasant, but he couldn't admit it out loud.

Despite all the whispered attempts to convince Kyle to take him to his bedroom, the king gracefully ignored him with a small laugh and walked him to the main salon. As he had anticipated, not a single soul could be seen wandering around, not in the corridors, not in the courtyard, much less inside the salon. All the euphoria and noise was now left behind; and all they could hear was the sound of the fireplace Kyle lighted after closing the doors behind them; wood popping and crackling as the fire burned it.

As the king stirred the firewood and warmed up next to it, Kenny dropped his heavy body on the huge armchair, which was more comfortable than the bed he had been sleeping on. They had gotten him a nice little room in the back of the castle, almost hidden from everyone, and despite being so tiny, it was far more pleasant than the cell, for obvious reasons.

Beginning with the fact that it wasn't a cell.

"You were really good tonight, Kenny. I wasn't expecting that much of you." Kyle said, straightening up and turning around to face him.

"Yeah well. You rule some really polite people. I was expecting to be stoned to death, since we're being honest."

"I may have my reservations against you, but I'd never put you up there if I thought it would put you at any risk."

"I know. You take such good care of me." The blond said with a seductive smile, tapping his thigh as he signed for Kyle to get closer. "Come here."

Instead of getting any closer as he requested, Kyle approached a table that held a beautiful silver platter full of ornamental bottles and crystal glasses. He chose the sweetest wine – apparently the elves had their own winery too. Kenny had already tasted all kinds of grapes that night. The king opened the bottle and threw the man a condescending look, licking his lips while pouring himself a glass of wine.

He brought the glass very close to his lips, without actually drinking from it, watching attentively as Kenny melted on the easy chair like a sleepy boy. It was almost cute. The fucker knew how to be cute.

"I'm not sitting on your lap, I'm sorry."

Now the blond had his head fallen to the side and was stretching slowly. He let out a short laugh to himself and opened his eyes to take a peek at the king, biting his bottom lip.

"Won't you give me a chance because of that French guy?"

Kyle's mien went serious.

"What?"

"Nah." Kenny laughed as he shook his head, waving his hand on the air. "Forget it, it's stupid."

"Explain it to me and I'll tell you if it's stupid."

"He just… We had this nice little chat tonight and he kind of threatened me. But it was that man to man kind of threat, so it wouldn't be right to tell you."

Emerald eyes didn't even blink for a long time, and when they did, the king had turned his face and taken a big gulp that finished with the wine in his glass, promptly serving himself with one more dose. Sighing intensely, Kyle let go of the bottle and took a moment to consider the information.

Then, rubbing the nape of his neck, he said:

"Christophe doesn't even trust himself. That's not exactly a surprise."

"Look, I'm not telling on him or anything. Just pretend you didn't hear it, please." The blond said in a calm tone as he struggled to get up from the armchair.

He surreptitiously walked towards the king and held him from behind, passing both arms around his waist, trying to feel his body, but it was covered under thick materials. His hands slid down to Kyle's hips, involving his torso in a warm and gentle hug that made the king close his eyes instinctively for a moment. He tightened his grip around the glass of wine, trembling as he felt Kenny's heavy breath touching the back of his neck.

"Please, stop it..." He mumbled with his eyes still closed, not even remotely trying to pull away.

Kenny moaned low next to his ear, pressing one hand on his abdomen, smoothing it slowly, feeling the golden latches of his coat, the expensive fabric covering that beautiful belly he had so many times pictured in his head. And now he could feel it.

"You know… I don't think The Mole threatened me because he doesn't trust me. I have this theory…" Kenny's hoarse voice was even softer and more involving with the smell of alcohol on his breath, whispering only a couple of inches away from Kyle's ear, letting him feel the hot air of his breathing in contrast with the cold air of the room. "That he wants you. And how could he not? Look at you..." His rude fingers started to caress the king's curls, putting his hair behind his ear to approach his lips and plant a tender kiss below his lobe. "But you're all mine."

"I'm not…"

The words died in Kyle's mouth and all that came out was this soft moan. He retracted his shoulder as he felt the hot and wet sensation of Kenny's mouth sliding down to the side of his neck, at the same time his hand left Kyle's stomach and went straight to his hair, grabbing a lock firmly between his fingers to lay his head to the side and devour his neck as he wished, kissing it, tasting it, licking it, biting it, sucking it.

Kyle's shaky hand tried to put the glass on the table, but he let go of it too close to the edge and the glass shattered on the floor in a thousand little pieces, making a pool of wine and broken crystal all over the ground. The noise was loud, but none of them paid attention: they had been too distracted by the fact that Kenny's skillful hands were fumbling Kyle's thin body and then turning the redhead to face him, pressing him bluntly against the table and colliding their lips with hunger, uniting their mouths with familiar intimacy. Their tongues met with no reluctance, tangling together in an anxious rhythm that was so usual between the two of them: because every time they kissed, they had to enjoy it to the maximum before Kyle came to his good senses.

But that night, Kenny's strong hand pressed against his nape wouldn't allow that his good sense even showed up.

It could have been the wine he had drank the past few hours, or the happiness that had filled him that night, or perhaps the unbearable sexual tension from which he had ran away for days now, or it could be the simple fact that Kenny's tongue did wonders inside his mouth. The point was that Kyle had decided to skip the complicated arguing part. He involved the blond man's neck with his arms and let his hands quickly and ingeniously work to open his heavy coat, take it off and throw it on the ground. Their bodies pressed together and wobbled away from the table, Kenny's hands freely feeling the king's shape and curves while Kyle held his face as close as he could, rubbing himself against him, sucking on his bottom lip with a quiet moan.

It wasn't long before the buttons of the king's chiffon shirt were sharply ripped off. The blond held a grip on the fabric to keep Kyle's body close to his as their tongues wrestled for space between their barely fitted lips, savoring his taste, pushing the hard volume of his cock against the redhead's thigh. Kyle's smell was intoxicating enough to drive him completely insane. Kyle kept his hand on the back of the blond's head to hold him in place as they kissed, feeling a shudder run down his spine as Kenny's strong hands went under the fabric of his shirt to touch his bare skin, filled with desire. His fingers pressed the king's waist firmly enough to leave some red marks on that soft pale skin, at the same time as their lips fitted perfectly and their tongues played with each other nonstop, until they couldn't breathe anymore.

"I can't take this." The redhead mumbled puffy in the middle of their kiss. "Fuck me… Just fuck me, please."


	10. Oh, human nature

The thing you should know about Kenny McCormick, above any other details that composes his unique personality, is that the pleasures of the flesh had so little to do with love, as far as he was concerned. And the only kind of sex that truly satisfied him was the dirtiest, the filthiest, the most immoral and vicious sex one could possibly have. That's what brought Kenny to true ecstasy, to his nirvana: not only the act itself, but the fact that he shouldn't be doing it. Which made him start some very torrid affairs with the wives of town; Bakers, soldiers, bar owners, powerful aristocrats and nobles, Kenny spared no one's mistress. Not even his friends' sisters, or his own cousins. Yes, he took great pleasure in fucking women he had no business fucking. But that pleasure was barely nothing, compared to the sin he discovered by lying down with a man for the very first time. Because it didn't matter who the man was; it could be any man, they were all forbidden. It wasn't publicly condemned, but it was secretly judged for being an offense and every human knew that. The elves seemed to feel different about it. Anyhow, the ecstasy of committing the sinful act of entering the male body was simply unparalleled.

After a few years of the most various kinds of sexual experiences, the blond came to a simple conclusion: it was impossible to have filthy sex with someone he cared about. He had to choose between the holiness of marriage, love and meaningful share of life with someone, or the perversity of forbidden, wrong, intense, dirty, sweaty sex in inappropriate places with inappropriate people. He could never have both with the same person.

And that's what he firmly believed until the night that Kyle Broflovski, the most inappropriate person in the whole universe for him, begged Kenny to fuck him hard.

Kenny threw all his certainties out the window as he grabbed the redhead by the nape of his neck and pulled him closer to give the hungriest kiss of his life.

Kyle was a man. From another specie. The enemy specie. He was the king and the leader of the enemy specie. And he was haughty. And Kenny lied right to his face. The point is: nothing could ever work out between the two of them, that was a conscious certainty that Kenny carried and chose to throw away when he dropped the king on the floor and covered Kyle's body with his own, almost desperately, ripping his clothes off with his drunken and adrift hands. Because all the inadequacy of the situation didn't matter anymore: Kenny felt like he could propose to him among their kisses, or suggest that they ran away, catching a glimpse of their possible future together, of all the happiness they could share. He wanted to give that elf everything he ever had and everything he ever was.

But then again, of course, Kenny was horny and drunk. Those are things that should be taken in consideration.

So, instead of appealing to the cheap romanticism, he whispered against Kyle's lips that he would fuck him like anyone had ever done before. The buttons of the king's silky shirt were torn off and now danced on the floor, spreading everywhere across the room, but all Kenny could focus on was that beautiful pale skin; his heaving chest going up and down as he took deep breaths, the soft abdomen, the little belly button that was begging to be kissed.

"Have you done this before?" It was all the blond could ask him, breathless, using his trembling arms to support his weight as he stared to the elf under him.

Kyle took his face in both of his hands and laughed in a provocative way that suggested what an innocent little boy Kenny was, judging by the silly questions he asked. It was too convincing for the blond man's taste. The king's legs winded around Kenny's waist, pressing him tightly against his body, raising his hip in an attempt to feel the other man's groin rubbing on his own, letting a subtle moan out of his gorgeous lips. Kenny took one hand to his face and cupped his cheek, brushing his thumb over Kyle's bottom lip before sliding it into his mouth, making the king suck it almost instinctively. And he did. Not only sucked the digit, but faced the blond the whole time with his bright green desirous eyes, and the look on his face gave away what a horny little slut he was. That made Kenny smile.

There was nothing romantic about what happened that night.

If anyone asked Kenny to explain what had happened on that salon the night of the End of the Harvest, he wouldn't know how to put it in words. Not because he was drunk, no. What intoxicated him, what confused him, what dulled and stupefied all his senses to the point where he could barely control himself, what gave him the sensation of being floating and at the same time made him feel so down to earth and so human, so inserted in his own flesh, like he could feel every single cell alive and burning… Was Kyle. That was Kyle's doing.

There was a moment when everything around them disappeared. Kenny's shaky hand ran through the king's soft back while he observed that naked body prone just for him. Kyle's knees where bent to raise up his hips, his beautiful face was so close to the ground, his thighs were far apart and the cheeks of his ass were wonderfully spread, exposing his tight and rosy little asshole. Kenny could have come three times just by looking at him in that position. As his hand traveled across his delicious skin, getting to the lower part of his back, so close to his ass, Kenny McCormick breathed heavily in ecstasy and precipitation, feeling like some kind of god. No exaggeration. The sweat had already begun to form on his skin, causing little drops to run down his neck and large chest as he raised his chin and licked his lips, quivering. It was unbelievable, seeing Kyle all fours on the ground, lifting his perfect little butt in the air, begging with the subtle move of his hips to be fucked senseless. Such a powerful and respected king, right there, facing down, imploring to be impaled by his thick cock. It was too much for any man to handle.

Kenny's hand went up to those scarlet curls and grabbed a lock of them with much more strength that he had meant to, out of pure lack of control, and he pushed Kyle's face against the wooden floor. It only made the king moan louder, pushing his hips back towards Kenny's hard dick, craving to feel it, letting escape a low nervous laugh, then saying in a husky and horny voice:

"Please, Kenny, I can't… I can't take it anymore, just stick in me."

"I knew that you were a little whore under that royal pose of yours." Kenny whispered, leaning over him to get his lips closer to Kyle's ear, feeling his sweaty chest press against his back.

His rigid cock brushed slightly between Kyle's cheeks, making the redhead twitch in agony for the teasing, quietly cursing Kenny under his intense breaths. Kenny couldn't hold it much longer either, not even if he wanted to, which he didn't. So he spat on his palm and started to rub his fingers on Kyle's entrance, making it wet, spreading his saliva all around it. Slowly, the blond slid his middle finger inside the king's asshole, feeling his muscles tighten up around it. The feeling set a shudder down Kyle's spine as he let the air out of his lungs and moaned under his puffy breath. When Kenny bent his fingers inside of his body, the king parted his lips and lost his air, not being able to make any sound. Kenny smirked.

He'd already fantasized about this at least a million times. But nothing had even come closer to what being inside of Kyle actually felt like. A part of him (the drunken part) didn't think he could handle that, but it was too late to doubt himself. Kenny was harder than any dream or fantasy or actual sex had ever made him, painfully rigid, throbbing, shaking in need. So he calmly straightened up his torso and spat on his dick, massaging it with his fingers to spread the saliva, then held it firmly by the base and fit it right between Kyle's cheeks, who moaned by the touch.

And Kenny penetrated him as slowly as he could, all at once.

He couldn't tell if Kyle was trying to play games with him when he had giggled before, when Kenny had asked him a (genuinely concerned) question about his experiences in the past. But when the head of Kenny's heavy cock started to force its way inside, the king sure as hell felt and seemed like a virgin in many ways. It was too tight. It hurt too much. It burned like nothing he had ever felt before. And he seemed to love every single second of it, every inch, pushing his hips back against his movement.

Kenny McCormick's cock was nothing less than majestic. Kyle had managed to take a good look at it before he'd been turned face down; he had even held it between his small fingers, being able to feel the blood pulsing underneath, the projecting veins, the deliciously thin skin so ruddy by the stiffening. It was so hard… And so thick. So long. At first, it burned as it opened Kyle's entrance little by little, and it came to a point where it was so deep inside him that the pressure was almost unbearable. It drove him completely insane. Kenny's big hands held him by the waist and pulled him firmly against his own move as he started to pull his cock out, leaving only the head of his dick inside, before pushing it harshly in one more time, shocking his hips against the redhead's ass, letting out a repressed moan, frowning his face in tiredness and pleasure. Kenny touched him with the hands of a man who knew what he was doing, as if he already knew every curve of that body by heart.

The blond repeated the same constant move, slow, intense and firm, feeling how Kyle's muscles tightened around his cock, trying to push him away and at the same time begging him for more. When his whole dick was inside and his balls were pressed against Kyle's rump, he took a deep and nervous breath, staying still for a few seconds. That felt like a purposeful torture, making Kyle twitch in agony under him, losing his strength. He couldn't support his weight with his arms anymore, so he laid his chest on the ground, and God, did he look beautiful like that, taking it all with his ass up and his face pressed on the floor. Kenny put his hand on the king's sweaty back and slipped it slowly across his humid skin, licking his lips, resuming his rhythm with long and hard thrusts, smiling when seeing how Kyle bit his own fist not to scream.

The short movement made both got used to the invasion, and Kyle relaxed, relieving the tension around Kenny's thick cock. The redhead's moans were almost screechy, with no air and no strength in his voice. He was slowly tamed while he was massaged on the inside, and Kenny bit his bottom lip just by watching his reactions: Kyle was completely submissive to him. The king focused all his strength into moving his hips in circles every time Kenny forced inside of him, receiving his cock with the craving of a slut, spreading his thighs far apart to open himself completely. His eyes rolled in their sockets as Kenny speeded up the pace with no warning, taking all of him, squeezing his ass cheeks with his fingers, leaving red marks. The blond's other hand went to the king's red hair - whose crown was fallen a few feet away from them on the ground - and pulled a lock of his hair, making his head fall back.

Kyle was only his. He had to make sure of that.

Fuck the stick. Fuck the war. What they were doing right there, that was all he needed to live from then on: Kyle's soft skin touching his own, their sweats mixing together, the smell of orchids, the smell of sex, that profane body that swallowed him and begged for more.

. . .

Both men had passed from the floor to the divan that was too small for two people, but had strangely accommodated their bodies very well. Kyle was lying on top of Kenny, between the man's legs, with his ginger head resting against his sweaty chest, listening to the beats of his raced heart. It calmed him down, like it calms down little puppies to listen to their mother's heartbeat. Now he understood how safe it felt. The king blinked slowly, a little numb from the liquor and the fucking. The sleepiness was starting to overtake him. The fireplace was still on, lightening their tired figures with its orange shine, and everything else around them was silence and darkness. Kenny's tender hand touched the king's forehead, then went up to remove the curls that fell over his eyes, smoothing his hair back, kissing lazily the top of his head.

The elf took a deep breath, caressing the side of Kenny's torso while comfortably moving to accommodate his weight over the strong arms wrapped around him. He had no idea how much time had passed, but it hadn't been enough time for the sweat and come they were covered in to dry out.

They had fucked one more time on the divan, with Kyle sitting on his lap, ridding his cock, kissing each other's mouth in the same slow rhythm in which their bodies became one. And Kenny had touched him like no one had ever had.

That didn't mean he had touched him better, but in a way that Kyle had never known before. The human way of making love, perhaps. Or it had only to do with the fact that Kenny didn't see him as a powerful king. All the other people Kyle had been with in his life had always seen him as this kind of royal divinity, something above, from a superior plan. Kenny didn't. Kenny touched him with no fear that he would suddenly break or fade away. He touched him pressing his flesh between his fingers, showing his turn-on in every grip, every caress, every bite. Kyle needed that to feel real.

Lying on the chest of that human man, the king had a flashback of an earlier conversation.

_"Are you in love with him?" Token asked, some meters away from him, surprising the king who watched the blond man from a good distance too. He had been smiling as he observed Kenny laughing out loud with Pip, totally unaware of the pair of dark eyes that had studied him for a couple of minutes now._

_Kyle turned around with fright on his face, but only for a second, soon turning his expression into an illegibly severe one, careful to not give away any inadequate detail of his thoughts. It was a little late for that, but Token couldn't blame him for trying._

_"What?" He replied with an emotionless voice._

_The condescending smile on Token's lips didn't please him at all. The answer came in the form of a nod, as the man pointed with his head in the direction of a certain blond guy who had any idea he was being watched by far. Token approached his king with his hands on his back, standing right beside him, close enough to whisper into his ear:_

_"I heard your little chat with him the day he was released. Me and Bradley, we heard every single word." He informed with his calmest tone, like a man who's reporting about the weather. So, stepping back to face the king, Token's expression became slightly sternest. "With all due respect, Your Grace, I sincerely hope you're not planning on doing anything… Inconsequent."_

_"Please, Token. If you really heard everything, then you're aware of my position on the matter. Nothing is going to happen. And I don't appreciate you insinuating that I'm that stupid. There is no need to discuss this with anyone else."_

_"Your Majesty, you know that I respect you immensely. I never meant to offend you. But Gregory is already suspicious. He troubled me all night with questions, I don't enjoy lying."_

_"If he's suspicious, let him be. I'll worry about Gregory when the time comes to worry about Gregory. For now, you've heard nothing."_

_Both men talked in a low tone, giving the flow of elves passing by; even though they were deeper in the woods, away from the bigger crowd, a lot of teenagers sneaked out to that part of the forest, bringing dates, looking for a place where they could be alone. Discretion was primordial. Despite the tightness in his chest before the possibility of someone finding out about his involvement with a prisoner, Kyle wasn't sweating out of nervousness yet. Token was the ideal person to find out about it (not that there was anything to be found out) without causing any scandals. He didn't need to worry about Bradley._

_"I'd really appreciate an answer, Your Grace."_

_"An answer?"_

_"Yes. After some days thinking about it… Because it was very confusing at first, you must understand, imagining you in a situation like this. It's too risky. Especially with a war about to arise, with all the things we still need to learn about this man. I couldn't understand, having known you my whole life, why would such a wise and judicious man put himself in a position like this for a prisoner. So… The only explanation I could think of, Your Majesty, is that you are in love with this man. Are you?"_

And Kyle had done the only rational thing that could be done in a situation like that: he laughed it off and lied with such conviction that made very clear to Token that he was, indeed, at least covering some very inappropriate feelings for the former prisoner. While he was there, lying in the arms of the blond who was about to fall asleep, Kyle smiled as he thought of what Token would have to say in case he saw them like that.

"You know…" Kenny whispered sleepily against the redhead's hair. "I think I'm sober now, but I still have like… Maybe half an hour to blame the Scotch for anything that I say, so I'll just say it." He cleaned his throat as his hands slowly stroked Kyle's naked back. "You make me crazy."

The king smiled when he felt the other man's nose sniffing his hair and the soft touch of his hands, blinking in response.

"I… Really wish I could stay here and hear more about that." He said in a husky voice, lifting his head to face him. "But I need to go. And you need to get back to your room. You can't fall asleep here."

He tried to untangle his body from Kenny's, but the blond man's arms were still tightly wrapped around him, holding him against his chest with no intention of letting him go. Laughs echoed through the room's air, which was cold, but they felt so warm and cozy next to the fireplace. Kyle couldn't help but smile when his eyes met the two little oceans that lived in Kenny's iris.

"Please." The king murmured. "The festival must be over by now, everyone should be heading back."

"No one's gonna come in here."

"You don't know that."

"Yeah, but even if someone finds out… They love me now, nothing's going to happen. I conquered their sensitive little hearts, isn't that what you wanted?"

Kyle finally managed to get Kenny's hands off him, and was now crawling out of the divan like an accurate feline, while the blond kept lying with his heavy body on the couch, his eyes only half-open. The king gracefully stepped on the ground and straightened up, giving Kenny a very generous view of his naked form for appreciation.

The smirk never left his lips.

"I'm a king, Kenny. It doesn't work like that."

"So… What? Just because you're a king, you have to be celibate or something? Is the problem that you can't fornicate with humans? Or... Is it allowed if the human in question is French?"

"What the hell is your problem with Christophe anyway?" Kyle rampaged while leaning forward to grab his delicate shirt. Kenny had ripped off the buttons, which was fine at the moment, but now it was slightly upsetting. He used his thumb to feel the fabric's texture, licking his lips, keeping the shirt close to his face so that he could smell Kenny's scent on it.

At the same time, the blond sit up on the couch and started to look around, searching for his own clothes, but not showing any initiative of getting dressed. He caressed his own thighs, pondering about his question, but then got distracted by the vision of the king dressing his open (and now buttonless) shirt, smiling over the damage he had made. Kyle's body was covered in purplish marks and hickeys, it was simply beautiful. Then, the king started to dress his undergarments, covering his ass, which ended a great part of Kenny's fun.

"No problem." He finally replied, rubbing the nape of his neck. "But Stan sort of insinuated that there was something going on. So… Is there?"

Not referring to Stan as 'your little dog' was one of the hardest things Kenny had ever done in his life, but he did it, because he knew how badly it would piss Kyle off. And for some reason, he didn't want that. Things between them were just too good to mess up right now.

Kyle turned around to glance at him, shaking his head in disapproval, but didn't offer any clarification, which bothered Kenny profoundly. The blond started to rub his hands together, feeling the heat leave his body gradually as the sweat dried off his skin, and the coldness of the room discomforted him again.

Then he said:

"You know, the French guy doesn't concern me as much as Stan does. I know how much he means to you. What the fuck happens between the two of you anyway?"

"Kenny." The king said more harshly than he expected, putting his pants on. "You know nothing about devotion."

"No. You're right, I don't." He said as he got up, still completely naked, walking leisurely towards the king, who was now putting on his heavy coat with some rush. Before he could step away, Kenny's strong arm involved his torso from behind and pulled him to press their bodies together, wandering his nose around Kyle's hair, inhaling his sweet smell of flowers mixed with the aroma of good sex. Kyle's eyes instinctively shut close and ran his tongue over his upper lip, shrugging in discomfort until he got used to that warm embrace. "I could never be contented with just adoring you from a distance like some lovesick puppy… From far away, not being able to touch you, masking my desire with that so called 'devotion' of yours." The blond whispered next to his ear, resting his chin over Kyle's shoulder and taking his wet fingers to pull the strands of hair away from his green eyes, smiling when he felt the redhead tremble a little. Hesitantly, Kenny's fingers separated and his hand found its way into the king's open coat and shirt, pressing his palm against his abdomen, touching him with satisfaction. "I have no devotion for you, my king. I will never kneel before Your Great Highness,.. I won't treat you like you're a God. You're made of flesh and bone, just like me. You're dirty and filthy like I am. You're a sinner. A whore. And it drives me insane. I want all of you, I would never settle for less."

A moan came out of the king's lips as he turned his face around to kiss the human's mouth with hunger.

. . .

Cartman took his fist to cover his mouth and coughed. Then, he went back on writing in his parchment, supporting his elbows on the table and holding his head with his free hand. The sound of the door opening was not enough to pull him out of his trance: he kept scrawling like he hadn't noticed the entrance of one of his best thieves. Craig Tucker walked until he was standing in front of the king's stone desk, with his arms behind his back, on guard, waiting for Cartman to recognize his presence.

When he didn't, Craig asked:

"Wanted to see me?"

"Craig." He replied with a slight tone of surprise, although it was fake, without bothering to take his eyes off the sheepskin. He spent more than ten seconds finishing a written sentence, then finally put his quill aside, raising his gaze and joining his hands in front of his face, staring blankly at him for a few more seconds. "How many of your fingers do I have to cut off to get you to call me 'Your Majesty'? Just for curiosity."

"Oh, Cartman. I don't have enough fingers for that."

"I figured. Well, you're lucky that your hands are still very useful to me."

"That's not luck."

The king laughed and lifted his heavy body from the chair, supporting his hands on the marble surface of the desk, sighing exhaustedly. He was about to deal with an unbelievably unpleasant, incredibly disappointing situation. He faced the dark haired man, who was dressed in black, dark blue and grey, with mantle wrapped around his torso. A mantle that had the royal guard's armorial bearing printed on it. Craig's facial expression was severe, almost annoyed, as usual. Cartman like Craig. He liked his way of dealing with things: he was a man with the most inflated ego on earth, but he could be, because he was very good on what he did. He could climb buildings like a spider and climb trees like a monkey. He was flexible, silent, strong. Well trained. Exactly the man Cartman needed right now.

"Do you know the story of the Stick of Truth?"

Craig narrowed his eyes, distrustful. His mouth was a straight line, and it didn't change, because he had no intention of responding to that. Firstly because he didn't know what kind of answer Cartman was expecting. He shrugged and nodded his head, not saying that he did, but not saying that he didn't, aware that he was going to hear the story one way or another. There were plenty of versions to that story, in fact. The Stick was a legendary artifact and all the records of its origin were uncertain.

The most accepted theory was of an old wizard who lived in a cavity on the ground: he was the most powerful wizard in the universe and had been recognized by many of his deeds, so he was searched by humans from all around the globe. People who were looking for miracles. However, the power was too much and it came to prove that even the most powerful wizard was only a man: he went mad. Not entirely, he still had his glimpses of lucidity, but it was the most painful thing of all. So he concentrated all his vital energy, wisdom and power into one single object: a simple wooden stick that could concede any wish to anyone who possessed it. The creation of the stick, according to the legend, had killed the wizard. And that was his plan: he couldn't bear to live anymore, but too many helpless people counted on him, so the stick would perpetuate his powers long after he was gone. But he gave it to the wrong people.

Everyone in the kingdom of Kupa Keep – perhaps every human on earth – knew this story. Craig was aware that Cartman's strange question wasn't about ancient historical legends.

"It belonged to the humans. By right. It was created in human land, protected and kept for centuries in our castles, coveted by the elves since the beginning. And by plenty of other races, of course." Cartan's fat hand slipped through the cold marble in an almost erotic way while he went around it, Craig observed, and the way he spoke was like he didn't even see Craig standing right there; he stared at nothing in particular, with his head crooked to the side, licking his lips like someone who tastes a delicious fruit. He was talking more to himself than to Craig. "Many wars were waged over the centuries. Drow Elves invaded our gates. But… They couldn't take the Stick. The only king who did it was a Light Elf. You'd think that the Drows are more dangerous, more hateful, trickier, wouldn't you? Well, you're wrong. Do you know the story of how the High Elf took the Stick away from us?"

The thief shook his head negatively. All he knew about that part of the story was what he had read in the books, although Craig had never been truly interested in legends told by the dusty library books. But he did know, naturally, that seven years ago the deceased High Elf had found out the exact location of the Stick hidden in Kupa Keep, and organized an unexpected attack in the middle of the night.

Craig remembered the invasion quite well. He was a teenager, like Cartman at the time, but every citizen of Kupa Keep would remember the terror on the streets that night, the screaming, the blood running between the cracks of the parallelepiped, elven soldiers roaming the alleys of the town as they searched for guards to put their arrows in their human hearts. While that happened, the other part of the elves' king guard got to the Stick. Craig remembered of his dad armed, standing by the window as his mother tried to calm his sister down, but Ruby wouldn't stop crying. The elves didn't break into a single house. They didn't touch a single citizen.

"I was already a soldier at the time. Long before I became a rebel. What were we, sixteen at the time? Fifteen? Well, I had the body structure of a man. I've always been bigger, stronger, I've trained since I was a kid because I knew I'd be a part of the king's guard one day. And I was good at it. I was a good soldier. Ruthless, merciless, impervious, yet loyal to what I believed in. I knew how to follow rules as long as I believed in then. I was never good at doing something just because I was told to. And something I've always believed in was that elves worth shit. But… Something happened. You know, I've never had many friends while growing up, I've never been treated as someone who's worth it. The first time I tasted this feeling was with an elf. Can you believe it? A boy my own age, with a ridiculous red hair, very beautiful, very kind. Those things usually don't move me. However, he did something for me… Something important, something that actually made me feel grateful. So I got sloppy. I was careless, stupid. I let him get closer. We both carried some shitty heavy weight on our shoulders, it felt good to talk about it. We got really close. Much closer than I've ever gotten with any human before. And do you know what that drove me to, Craig?"

"To imprudence."

His eyes had this weird color, like a bluish light grey, but the poorly lightened room made them look dark and gloomy. The pupils were enlarged and his chest went up and down in harsh breaths. He was so involved by the direction of that story, still keeping his stern face looking indifferent to the king's narrative. But Cartman knew that he was paying close attention to every word, because he watched those eyes carefully and they barely blinked.

The king parted his lips as if he was to continue, but instead he sucked the air through his mouth and nodded his head slowly. Now, he was on the other side of the table, leaning against it, facing the thief. Both hands held the edge of the marble.

"That's right." He finally confirmed. "I was imprudent. I trusted this boy who, being who he was, would obviously betray me. I was fucking dumb. I told him about the castle's horrors, about the king's tyranny, the bloodbath, the things I've had to do and that had deformed me. I told him where the stick was kept. And then… That lying, cheap little whore ran to his little daddy and told every fucking thing. Drow Elves stab you in the front, but Light Elves? They are so much worst, more dangerous. They make you believe in their kindness to make you fragile, then they deceive you, delude you, take you to their shiny little faggy world only to spit you out like you're a piece of shit." Cartman turned his back on Craig to reach for a bottle of brandy on his desk, pouring himself a glass that was already used. "Now tell me, Craig… Do you think that's fair? Is it right that they took the stick from its rightful owners, by concealment, dissimulation? Invading your gates like the monsters they really are, terrorizing our people and walking away with it? Betraying the confidence of a human soldier oppressed by his king?"

The table held a golden centerpiece filled with fruits and a platter with cheese and drinks. Cartman offered the thief some of his own drink, which Craig refused with a nod, never changing his expression or body position. The king ran his tongue over his lips before finishing his drink with a single gulp, savoring the taste.

Then, turning his face to the man, he waited for an answer.

"No, sir. I don't think it's fair."

"Very well. I don't think it's fair either. And I believed that my own childhood friend also didn't, but he has been sent to retake the stick sixty days ago and until today I have not seen any result. At first, I thought he was taking it slow… Gaining the elves' trust, extracting some information, like we talked about. But now, Sir Tucker, I'm starting to think that maybe McCormick has no intention of coming back. Wouldn't that be terrible? If the one who betrayed my trust were to convince my faithful friend and servant to stab me in the back?"

"What do you want me to do, Cartman?"

Something changed inside the king's eyes, as if behind them there had been a snap of some kind, but Craig wasn't able to hear it. And a smile that was nothing less than diabolic showed on Eric's lips. At last, the conversation had progressed to the important part. Something that he had considerate for the last week while he waited for Kenny to arrive on a stolen horse, with the Stick wrapped in a blanked and a proud smile for having made the right decision. But Kenny never arrived. And Cartman was beginning to lose his patience.

Someone had to pay. It hadn't been enough, the dance of his sword echoing against Gerald Broflovski's at the forest war, three years before. It hadn't been enough, the bloodshed on the king's landing, on the grass that coated the grove, on the terrified faces of those who'd survived the battles. It hadn't been enough, all the families that had mourned their dead, praying that someday their sons' bodies returned home for a decent funeral. It hadn't been enough, all the violated corpses, the tortured elves, the gold invested in war, the headache, the protuberant vein on the neck of those who spent their nights planning and elaborating tactics to win, fearing death, but most of all, fearing life. No. Someone still had to pay.

The High Elf had to pay for what had been taken from the human king, the Great Wizard.

And Cartman was certain of that, as the night is dark and the day is bright. A few drops of sweat ran down his forehead, but he rapidly wiped them off with a handkerchief that he always kept hidden inside his blood-red tunic. The handkerchief was black, made of silk, and if felt good against his thick skin when he got a little carried away.

The king was a very extravagant man.

Cleaning his throat, he said:

"You'll go after him. You'll leave before sunrise, tomorrow. It'll be five days of travel on horse, but I need you to tie the horses before you enter the denser part of the woods and do the rest of the way walking, or else the elves will notice. You'll find Kenny when he is alone. Watch him during the day, see where he goes to, where he sleeps. Climb his window in the middle of the night if you have to, I don't give a fuck. But find a way to talk to him and make it very clear that I'm no longer willing to wait. Discover his true intensions and collect the information he has gathered so far. Do not come back without that fucking stick. You listen to me, Tucker: you're the most silent thief I have, and probably the faster one. Always stay on trees, come down only at night, never be seen by anyone. And in case someone catches you, break the motherfucker's neck and get rid of the body. We can't risk anyone finding out that they have infiltrated thieves."

"Thieves? I'm not going alone?"

"Of course not. You need to take someone Kenny has a soft spot for. McCormick is coming with you."

Craig frowned, slightly confused.

"The princess?"

Cartman laughed out loud, shaking the glass that was still on his hand, turning around to grab the bottle again, craving for another dose.

"Geez, they're like a plague, aren't they? There are so many of them, you never know which one you're talking about. No… Not the princess. She won't even know about this. I'm talking about the third McCormick."


	11. Once upon a time, there was a prisoner

_Gregory and the Prisoner_

Winter had brought some cloudy and ugly days with itself. The skies, that during fall had been so breathtaking, so beautiful, mixing deep blues with pinks and purples during the day, allowing the sun rays to shine freely over the lands of Zaron, were now covered by terribly grey clouds that threatened to bring a storm. Thunders echoed blustering, scaring children and making dogs bark all over the kingdom in response, as if it were a conversation. Mistress closed the windows of their little wooden houses, and hurried to the clotheslines, quickly collecting their laundry, complaining about the mud that would come with the rain. But life went on normally: horses kept pulling cart loads led by campestral elves, carrying sacks of rice and beans that had been picked that same morning. Merchants and traders carried on with their business at the fair, selling handicrafts in their armed tents for when the rain came. Couples wandered hand in hand by the fountain.

Kenny took a noisy bite from his delicious apple as he watched that whole mess going on around him. He had a few more hours until it was time to work, so he sat down on one of the street's stair-step, that lead to a little archery store, and contemplated the elves' movement with a suggestive smile on his face.

But Gregory didn't recognize his presence there, even though he was very close, because he was too involved in a heated discussion with Henrietta and Wendy. Wendy's long dark hair was pulled back on a complicated braid that fell on one of her shoulders. Her dress' sleeve was long and flowing, waving around as she gesticulated with her hands. She was so different from most women, especially the human ones (since they were the women Kenny knew better): she dressed so elegantly, always in pastels, with delicate fabrics that hugged her curvy figure in a very insinuating way, yet never vulgar. Her bodice marked her waist very well, and her long dress skirt was so voluminous that made her hips look bulky. She was beautiful. Henrietta seemed to be the exact opposite. She had no intention of looking like an elegant and graceful woman; her skirt was in burgundy velvet, and there was nothing underneath making the volume (nothing other than her truly large hips, that is). The ties of her bodice were in green, but a very dark one, nearly black. Her lips wore a lipstick that had the same color of her dress, a purplish red, like the color of wine, only darker. She only wore dark colors. She was a fat and obscure woman who Kenny feared a little bit, although she had this magnificent face that resembled a sculpture, under heavy makeup and deep dark circles under her eyes. Kenny enjoyed looking at her.

She looked pissed.

Henrietta lit a cigarette in the middle of their discussion; it was so hard to find women smoking, Kenny still hadn't come across one since he had been in the Elven Kingdom, at least until now. He could only hear parts of the conversation, because every now and then their voices were smothered by all the other noised happening on the street.

"You weary me, Gregory." She said in a blasé tone, blowing her smoke dangerously close to his face.

"Henrietta, my dear, it is not my fault that you're far too ignorant to understand such simple things. If the two of you aren't happy with my decisions, refer your complains to the head chancellor. I simply do not have the time to deal with this."

Waving his hand indifferently to them, Gregory tried to go on his way, being immediately interrupted by Wendy's dainty hand, that was so much stronger than it looked like. The grip was full of anger. She didn't just stop him from walking further, but also pulled him back, approaching her face to speak closely to him, trying to avoid a scandal. Her voice was low and indignant, but not low enough that Kenny couldn't hear her.

"We don't owe you any obedience."

The look sent by Gregory was strangely familiar; perhaps that was just the way he looked at everything that displeased him, that's why it felt so familiar to Kenny. He tended to displease Sir Gregory a lot. Kenny observed how his eyes analyzed the hand that had dared to grab him, taking a while to ponder about the manicured nails dug in his arm over the coat, and then he raised his gaze to look Wendy in the eyes like she had just committed a sacrilege. Henrietta just watched the two of them with a frown, just like the blond man behind the three elves, whose presence remained unnoticed.

Not letting go of him, Wendy said in a louder tone:

"For some reason that I fail to understand, since I'm so ignorant, the king sees value in your contributions, but…"

"Well, I can say the exact same thing." He interrupted, facing her up close with a defiant glare, pulling his arm back, and Wendy allowed, letting go of the man. "You're blind by your foolish beliefs. You're mediocre and incapable. And you are speaking to a Lord of the castle, young girl, so I recommend you don't forget this."

Henrietta took one last drag on her cigarette, then threw it on the ground and lifted the bar of her dress to smash the butt under her heel, listening to the man's words, not necessarily absorbing them; unlike Wendy, whose eyes seemed to burn in fury and her lips soon parted to give him a long and eloquent reply. But Henrietta's hand on her shoulder made her hesitate, and the bigger woman spoke instead:

"Let's go, Wendy. It's not like this Lord's insanity will pass through the king's approval. When the matter comes to the board, he'll be discarded. You know that."

Despite being a passionate woman, Wendy was very reasonable. She glanced to the man that stared at both of them with disbelief in his expression, like a teacher who had been disrespected, and that face only worsened when Henrietta gave him her back and started to walk away, promptly followed by the other woman. Gregory took his long fingers to his jaw, smoothing his soft skin with the tip of his digits, keeping his chin duly raised to show everyone how dignified he was.

Kenny couldn't help but notice the mischievous atmosphere around that man. Maybe it was his hair. It never failed to scare the crap out of Kenny how that hair never moved, it was perfectly smoothed back with gel in a cowlick, and not even one strand was ever seen out of place. That hair was pure evil.

"Man, you really don't know a rat's ass about talking to people." Gregory heard the presumptuous voice coming from behind him, muffled under a loud chewing sound that really got on Gregory's nerves. He turned around to find the former prisoner, McCormick, holding an apple in one hand and a condescending look on his face. That made him despicably sick.

"What do you want, you fucking worm?"

"And that's exactly what I'm talking about." He replied, snapping his fingers. Then, he stepped forward to get closer to the other man. "If you were in my place, having to convince thousands of people that you're not some stinky murder, you'd be totally fucked."

"Yeah? Well, there's a good reason why I'm not in your place. I'm not a profiteer tramp like you."

Kenny smiled, shaking his head as he raised both hands in a defeated gesture.

"Hey, I'm not trying to judge here. You don't need to get all defensive. I'm just stating a fact: people don't like to listen to you because you always talk down to them, like they're nothing. And I'm offering you a friendly advice." He took a pause. "Well, maybe not friendly, since I don't particularly like you. Let's say I… Find it unfortunate that such a smart guy ends up being underestimated because nobody can stand a conversation with him."

Gregory diverted him with an ironic laugh, snorting, shaking his head negatively right before turning his body to get away from there. But his legs didn't carry him much further. He turned back to meet Kenny's gaze, and the former prisoner was still standing there on the same spot, taking his apple to his mouth for a new bite. There was a hint of a smile on his lips, but it didn't properly show up, or else it would be insulting. It was hard not to smile because he could see so well the inner battle occurring inside of Gregory that instant.

At last, the Lord couldn't keep his words from coming out, as much as he wanted to.

"Who the hell do you think you are to talk to me like that? You're an intruder here. You're despised. Your little speech hasn't changed a thing. I have my dignity, I won't be judged by a project of human shit like you."

"Really? The elven people hate me? That's funny, you see, 'cause I didn't even have to pay for this apple." He replied with a smirk, playing with the fruit between his fingers. "It was given to me because I'm so nice to the lady who sells them."

"You're a poor bastard. I pity you."

"Yeah, well, offending me won't change the fact that I'm saying the truth. You think you're respected here, but that's mostly because of your inflated ego. Nobody likes a man who can't listen to others."

"I'll arrange that the king gets you to wear a muzzle, like the dog you truly are. You speak too much."

"I've known men like you. Powerful, who enjoyed stepping on others, thinking they were above everyone else. Alone, they have been ruined. Gregory, it doesn't cost me shit to give you an advice. You have every right to ignore it. But being liked is a virtue, and kindness is very much valued here. Believe me, I know it. If you keep treating your mates like you treated those women… Well, that can really fuck you up."

Blowing the air out of his lungs, Gregory of Yardale walked away in heavy steps, towards the castle, exercising his right of ignoring it.

. . .

_Token and the Prisoner_

Token Black spent his mornings resolving the castle's designate issues, corresponding letters and tending political relations with other kingdoms, concerned about the war. And he spent his evenings debating with other counselors, elaborating government plans and their applications before presenting them to the king, approving and denying tactics, concerned about the people. But during the afternoons, Token Black's only concern was the poor. He was the son of an important baron who owned and commanded the whole fleet of ships that imported and exported products across the ocean. His family had always had tones and tones of money. The Blacks had a very close relationship with the royal family for generations, and his father had been an intimate friend of the former king, Kyle's father. Gerald Broflovski and Steve Black had played together as children. Their own children, however, Token and Kyle, didn't. When they were kids, they barely spoke, since Kyle didn't appreciate the company of other rich boys. When they were teenagers, they learned how much they had in common: Kyle loved literature and history, and so did Token, resulting in many afternoons spent in the castle's giant library, studying tones of books and discussing them for hours. That's how they became so close.

The point is that Token hadn't grown up knowing poverty. He remembered so well of the shock that it was when he first met the kingdom's poor villages, realizing that the world wasn't made of gold and diamonds after all. And that many people had nothing to eat. The Elven Kingdom wasn't a poor one; it had a nearly impeccable income distribution and the workers were highly valued, but Token still wasn't satisfied. That's precisely what brought him to take off his jewelry that worth more than those people's houses, and his expensive clothes made of Egyptian fabric, to dress ordinary clothes and get his ass down from his aristocratic position to work serving food in a small thatched house. "House of Holy Charity", that's how it was called. The tenebrous rain went on pouring down, making the sky so gloomy and dark that it looked like night was falling already, even though it was only two in the afternoon. The smell of spinach soup filled the ambience, and it was delicious, coming out of the steamy crocks, spreading through the room that was more crowded than usually, probably because of the rain.

It had been surprising, to say the least, when Token was informed that Kenny McCormick had been fitted to work in the House of Holy Charity, since he hadn't done very well working in the stables with the war horses of the king's guard. Nobody had specified to Token what exactly had gone wrong between Kenny and the horses, but after two days working with the blond, Token understood that the problem hadn't been with the animals, but with the elves who he worked for. Kenny was sloppy, unfocused, hard to lead and was always late. At the same time, Token was impressed with the human's sympathy while he served the bowls of soup; it took him five seconds and a warm smile, but Kenny could make every miserable person feel at home. He also had strong arms and was very helpful when they needed to unload the cart that brought the ingredients, carrying heavy sacks inside the kitchen on his large back. Token used to do that with barely any help, since most of the workers were women and he was a gentleman (even with those women who were much bigger than him). Kenny had no problem with carrying weight. That made Token start to consider the possibility of this working out just fine.

In that afternoon in particular, he was starting to lose his well-known patience. Kenny had already come in late, as usual, but over ten minutes ago he had disappeared with the excuse of getting more clean bowls in the kitchen, with the house full of hungry elves. Token dropped the wooden soup ladle over the table and cleaned his hands on his apron, angrily walking to the kitchen, pushing the door open with his butt in an aggressive way. As he had expected, there was no one. Token took a deep breath, heading to the back door that led to an alleyway. Now, the rain had being reduced to a few thick drops, nothing awful. Token didn't even notice those drops as he walked to the street with a frown, checking the surroundings, finally meeting Kenny with his gaze. He was a few feet away, leaning forward, talking to a little boy.

It was only when he approached them that Token could realize the boy was wearing a coat way too big for his skinny body, the same coat Kenny had been wearing before. Token wasn't an impulsive man; quite the opposite, actually. He slowed down as naturally as he could before getting too close to them. The little elf also wore a brown beret that covered his pointy ears, and his face was stained by what seemed to be coal. When the boy saw Token, he quickly bowed for him, which made Token smile and wave his hand so that the boy would straighten up again. The older elf stood beside Kenny and put his hands on his own thighs, bending his knees to be on the same level as the kid.

"What is your name, my child?"

"Melvin, Sir." He promptly said with his mouth full. Only then, Token noticed that he held a small bar of half-eaten chocolate on his little hands.

"Melvin, are you enjoying your chocolate?"

The boy raised his huge hazel eyes to look at Kenny as if he sought for reassurance before he fervently nodded his head. A gentle smile lightened up Token's severe figures, calming the boy's heart, especially when the aristocrat patted him on the shoulder.

"Very well. Go play, my dear. Come back if you need anything."

After spending two seconds standing completely still, Melvin nodded one more time, keeping his eyes wide and staring, as his little hand smeared with chocolate touched the coat that covered his body, hesitating, looking at the coat's owner.

"No." Kenny said to him. "Take it with you, please."

The boy, who couldn't be over eight years old, stared at him in disbelief before launching his body towards Kenny for a very quick and tight thankful hug. He wrapped his thin arms around Kenny's hip, pressing his cheek against the blond man's stomach. And as soon as he let go, Melvin ran away, obeying what had been told him, closing the buttons of the coat that nearly dragged on the ground.

Kenny sighed heavily.

"Look, I'm sorry. I saw him through the window, he seemed cold, I came out here to invite him in, but he had already had soup, so he really wanted a chocolate…"

"No." Token sweetly interrupted him, raising his hand in the air. "It's alright. I won't rebuke you for giving a boy some chocolate. Just get in, Kenny. The house is full today."

Kenny took a long look at the other man's face, under the slight impression that – like every single time they had spoken – Token wanted to say more than what he was actually saying. A knot rapidly formed in the blond man's throat, but he simply obeyed. Token, on the other hand, stood there in the middle of the street, feeling the cold air getting under his clothes and drops of rain fall over his head, but he was far too entertained with his own thoughts. Something about Kenny McCormick fascinated him. With all his concerns, all his reservations about the relationship between his king and that man, Token couldn't shake away the feeling that, deep inside, the former prisoner was a good person. A truly good person. The kind of man who would die for what's right, who had the courage of a lion, the kind of man you have to admire. And that thought disturbed Token immensely.

. . .

_Stanley and the Prisoner_

Along with the night came an insanely aggressive rain. The streets were desert, most elves had retracted to their rooms when the skies started to pour water incessantly and thunder started to get louder, but it was already late at night. The dark haired warrior came out with a lampion on his hand, lightening his way in the pitch-dark of night, but still, the light was too weak to be called useful. He was already soaking wet; his shoes produced this grotesque noise as he walked, as if he wore sponges on his feet, and he wasn't yet able to see the damage the mud had made on his boots. He shielded his eyes with one hand so the rain wouldn't worsen his already impaired vision.

"Sparky!" Stan yelled, but his voice was too low compared to the rackety sound of thunders and water spouting from above.

He wore a coat made of the thick fur of a mountaineer bear, but it wasn't enough to keep his body from shivering, since he was waterlogged on the inside.

Only a few meters from him, Kenny came down the small stairs that connected the castle to the garden, frowning as he saw the man in the darkness, shaking a lampion as he claimed the name of his beloved dog in the middle of the night. The blond had just paid a visit to the king, who now slept deeply in the coziness of his room, warm under covers, perfectly happy. It was painful, leaving his room. How tempting if felt to just lay there with Kyle until morning came, feeling his heat (Kyle's body temperature was absurdly high), but he had to go before the sun came up. To be honest, he couldn't sleep anyway for several days now. So night walks had become part of his routine, they were much better than mentally torturing himself in bed. Being alone with his consciousness had been fucking terrible lately, especially when he was beside Kyle, who slept like a baby. He'd only lay down when he was near the exhaustion, completely certain that he would pass out.

"Stan!" He shouted, looking around hesitantly, licking his lips. He was unsure of what to do next. He didn't want to go after him, since Stan was in the garden under the rain and Kenny was wearing scuffs on his feet and his shins were exposed. He wore a thick overcoat that protected his nearly naked body underneath. He really didn't feel like getting wet.

But the warrior didn't recognize his presence, much less heard his call. He was too distracted snapping his fingers, whistling and yelling Sparky's name over and over as he crossed the garden like a homeless man. To Kenny's disturbed consciousness it wasn't a matter of choice anymore. He ran down the last steps of the stair, careful not to slip, and his cloth slippers splashed in the pools of water that had formed on the ground, absorbing the liquid like two sponges, making a sound that was even worse than the one Stan's boots produced. Luckily, or not, the only sound that could be heard was the sound of falling rain. Soon, Kenny's naked legs ran against cold wind, each step squirting dirty water on his shins, creating a discomfort that he would only feel later, as for now, his hair, his face and his clothes were equally swampy, which bothered him so much more. Once again he shouted the warrior's name in the dark, getting closer to him in the center of the yard. Up close, he could see how shaky Stan was.

"Stanley, what on earth…?" He stretched his arm to hold the man's tense shoulder, which caused Stan to turn around like a surrounded animal, lightening Kenny's face with his lamp, blinding him for a second. Kenny covered his face with his arm in an instinctive gesture, sure that he would get punched, but nothing happened.

Stan simply stepped back and lowered his lampion, staring at the other man as if he had just committed some sort of madness (which made no sense to Kenny, since Stan had been the one who caused him to be there in the first place). The darkness and the gushing water didn't allow him to see the warrior's features, but he was pretty sure Stan had just rolled his eyes to him before he turned his back on Kenny and kept walking, yelling for Sparky, going on his way like nothing had ever happened. Unsatisfied with his reaction, Kenny picked up his pace to catch up with Stan, slipping on the wet stone ground, nearly falling on his face during the process. But he gracefully recovered, waving his arms, and in no time he was beside Stanley again.

"You won't find him on this weather!" He said, screaming very closy to his face, holding him firmly by the arm to force the warrior to look at him. Stan's glare was not happy, of course, but he didn't care. "You'll get sick. Let's go inside. When the rain stops, I'll help you."

"I don't want your fucking help. He has never been alone by himself out here, he's scared and I won't leave him here." The dark haired man responded as if those words had been choking in his throat for days, pulling his arm to get rid of Kenny's grip. "You go inside."

When Stanley stepped away to proceed with his nocturnal perambulation, Kenny stood still on the same spot for a considerable amount of time, not reacting in any way. Although he hadn't paid attention to the blond, Stan still spied on him with the corner of his eye from time to time, as he crouched to look under benches and behind plant vases. Sparky loved to roll around in that garden, especially when it rained, but there was no sign of him, which made Stan's chest tighten in agony, but there was a certain relief in his heart when he heard a husky voice calling a name. Not his name, no, not this time. He turned his face to look for Kenny's figure, further away this time, as the blond shouted:

"Sparky!"

He was walking in the opposite direction.

Stan frowned, watching him for a moment. He blinked a few times to get rid of the rain drops that had accumulated on his eyelashes, licking his lips to feel a bitter taste in his tongue. Kenny McCormick whistled and called for his dog, screaming at the top of his lungs, tapping his tights over the soppy coat that covered him, saying "here, buddy". And Stan didn't understand. The cold penetrated his skin, shaking like a scared calf, soaked even inside his boots, and the top of his head hurt from all the water being dumped on his scalp, and for all the gods, he did not want to be in that situation. At all. But he had to. And he couldn't understand why would this man, with who he had such an unpleasant relationship from day one, be willing to go through the same thing – or worse, since he was so poorly covered – for no good reason.

But he didn't try to understand it at that moment. He felt a smile showing up on his lips, but didn't allow himself to delight from this feeling for too long. He just kept on looking.

The castle's yard was large enough so that, in a couple of minutes, he couldn't hear Kenny's shouts anymore, and Kenny couldn't hear his either. Stan searched through the bushes, behind statues and fountains, under every single stone bench, among flower-beds, whistling and insistently trying to find his buddy cornered somewhere. Sparky was a very ugly and crooked dog, a pooch with faulty pelage and an oddly long nose, but Stan loved him like one loves his family.

So he searched. And he looked. And he called. And he sought. And after about twenty minutes, he was crawling on the floor with a very low perspective of getting up, resting his forehead against his arm, breathing heavily.

Whining in a small voice, hugging his own torso in an attempt to conserve heat, with his bones sore and no longer able to feel his fingers, the warrior dragged his body to one of the benches and sat down. The rain had ceased a little. Stan's head was boiling on the inside, while the rest of his body shook trying to combat the unbearable coldness. The extremities of his body and face were nearly freezing. He still tried to whistle, in a failed attempt to be heard, but he was too exhausted to project his voice in a louder tone, or to make any noises that could overcome the sound of the rain, for that matter. He took one hand to his forehead, trembling and weak, feeling the thermal shock between his cold palm and his heated head. Kenny was right, he would get sick. But he didn't care.

"Stan!"

The warrior raised his head quickly.

It took Kenny a while to emerge from the clumps, all marshy, dripping water from head to toe, now barefoot for some reason, but despite all that, he had this triumphant smile on his face. His fist was closed, holding something that Stan couldn't identify, which soon lost importance when his mucky, muddy and stinky little dog came running from between Kenny's legs, jumping so quickly towards Stan that he tripped on his own short legs, keeping his tongue stuck out as his mouth formed something very similar to a smile, that is, if dogs could smile. Stan believed his could. He got down from the bench, falling with his knees on the ground, spreading his arms to welcome Sparky, who jumped on him like they hadn't seen each other for years. He licked the drops of rain on Stan's face, wagging his tail as happily as a dog could.

"Boy, where have you been?" Stan asked Sparky, holding his fat little cheeks, squeezing him gently. "You scared the hell out of me."

"Don't judge me, but I had ribs in my room. I went to grab a piece, just to see if he would sniff it and come out. He licked some, I hope that's okay." Kenny explained.

"Yeah, yeah, it's fine."

"I hate to be a party pooper, but there's ice forming on my eyelashes. Can we go in?" He asked, involving his torso with his arms, trying to get warm.

Stan nodded his head, holding Sparky tightly against his chest before getting up, and both men walked toward the castle in silence. Kenny looked up every now and then, sticking his tongue out to catch some of the rain drops, and Stan quietly talked to Sparky, rubbing his face on the dog's, getting mud on his cheeks. But it wasn't like he didn't already need a bath, anyway.

When they got to the covered part of the corridors, surrounded by stone columns that allowed a beautiful view to the yard, Stan and Kenny exchanged an awkward look. Sparky was completely unaware of their discomfort, warming himself against his owner's chest, what made Kenny smile. It was Stan who broke the silence.

"Why did you do it?"

"What?" Kenny asked, daring to get a little closer, raising his hand to caress the dog's disgustingly grubby fur, seeming distracted.

"Please, don't play dumb with me. It's raining so hard that the skies could be falling, you don't even like me, you had no reason to help me. What do you want in exchange?"

Kenny's gaze rose to the warrior, his eyes were narrowed, taking his hand off slowly. He crosses his arms, swallowing the tremor when a cold breeze passed them.

"I'm not the monster you think I am, Stan."

That being said, he let the air go through his nostrils, turning around to leave without expecting any answer. After two steps, feeling that Stan hadn't moved, he turned his face to say in a smoother tone:

"Kyle really loves you. So… How bad can you be anyway?"

. . .

_Craig and the Brother_

It was late. Craig couldn't tell if the rain had stopped or not, because the drops kept falling from the trees' leaves nonstop, and the thick branches protected them from the heavy rain, not allowing them to even see the sky. They were extremely close to the trunk of the biggest tree they could find in that dark and dense forest. They had been warned about the cold, but not enough to psychologically prepare them for those cutting nights they had spent exposed the freezing open air, sharp wind and long rains. He was sitting on a stump, annoyed by the unpleasing feeling of his wet ass, trying to distract himself by whittling a piece of wood he had found that same afternoon. He was trying to make a horse out of it, but he had never been all that talented in whittling things. He raised his eyes to the man sitting next to him, who kept his head down and hugged his own body, shaking like a wet dog. All Craig could see was that dirty honey blond hair that looked unexplainably greasy and wet at the same time, and soon Kevin lifted his head, whipping his hair back to meet Craig's gaze.

"Can we build a fire?"

"No." Craig responded immediately, getting his attention back on the soon-to-be horse. "No fire."

"Damn it, Tucker."

"It's the king's order. No fire."

Kevin spread his legs apart and started to pick some small and wet branches up, breaking them in anger, grunting when they were stubborn. He tried to remain in silence. He really did, because that was usually the better way to handle a night like that. It wasn't the first time, and it absolutely wouldn't be the last time that Kevin spent his night (or several in a row) sleeping outdoors in low temperatures, and he had learned that silence could be your most faithful allied if you wanted to survive. But annoyance overcame all of his knowledge.

"Fuck his orders. It's not his fat ass that is freezing out here, now, is it?"

"Kevin. We can't leave tracks. You know that."

He did know that. He wasn't inexpedient, he knew that fire could blow any cover, no matter how much they remained hidden. His cheeks were slightly warmer than his hands, so he tried to warm his fingers by pressing them against his skin.

"Let's go through the plan one more time." It was all that Kevin said, choosing not to insist about the fire.

He had been friends with Craig Tucker for many years, although they hadn't been childhood friends, since Kevin was five years older. Five years stopped being a relevant age difference when Craig became a teenager, and they both found this strange and almost instant tune: they were recluse people with difficulty of communicating through anything that didn't involve sarcasm, umbrage and anger. They didn't like to talk and they didn't like people in general; they both saw the world through this dark kaleidoscope due to some bloody and obscure experiences in their early lives, emerged in war. Craig had always been an undemonstrative boy, armed with a thick shield of "I-don't-give-a-fuck", exactly like his dad, a man as tall as a building who had never learned how to say what he felt. Kevin was much like his father too, in every way he wished he wasn't.

They understood each other.

Craig pressed his index finger between his eyebrows to relieve a headache.

"Let's give it a few days to observe him. We'll stay on the trees as much as possible, when we approach the castle. At night, we'll look for food. I'm sure there are rabbits and snakes we can kill."

"How do we pass the gates?"

"There are no gates. The woods are their gates. It won't be easy, but we'll manage. We have to be patient and see what Kenny is up to before we go down and talk to him."

"For how long?"

"It depends on what we see. And on how long it takes for us to get him alone, or find out where he sleeps. Maybe it's easy to access. It won't be long. But… I don't know, I have my apprehensions."

"Are you afraid he gave up on the plan?"

Craig finally looked away from his wooden horse, that only now had started to get the shape of a horse, and took his pinkie finger to his mouth, using the nail to pick on something that was stuck between his teeth. It had been bothering him since dinner. Kevin grabbed a tin cup that was resting on the ground, next to him. It had been green once, but the color had peeled off by now. Inside, there was some rum, which he drank.

"Yeah." The dark haired confirmed.

Kevin turned his face away from Craig to spit on the ground. There was a bitter taste in his mouth.

"My little brother wouldn't do that. Don't get dragged into the king's delirium, that dude is fucked up in the head. Do you hear me? Ken is a little slow, that's all. We came here to help him."

"Haven't you even stopped to consider that maybe Cartman is right? Because… If he is, then you should start to prepare yourself. You know, in case we…"

"He is not right. Jesus, Craig." Kevin interrupted with no doubt on his voice, tapping the side of his tin cup. He shivered and grunted in annoyance. "I know Kenny. Family is the only thing that matters to that kid. He knows what's at stake here, he ain't stupid, the king has our family on the palm of his hand. How do you think Cartman convinced him to come here in the first place? He gave our sister the throne, but he would kick her off and throw us all on the street at the smallest sign of betrayal. We've been on the streets before, Craig. We can't go back. Kenny knows that."

"Yeah…" He replied vaguely, passing his thumb over the little face of the horse. "I hope you're right."

Craig disagreed profoundly, but he wouldn't say a thing about it. Both men chose silence for the rest of the night, quietly guarded by the drops of rain accumulated on the leaves of the trees that protected them into the wild.


	12. I saw it with my own eyes

Kenny's hand went back and forward on the sinuous curve between Kyle's hip and his waist, one of the parts of the king's body that he loved the most. He always tried to choose, he really did, and when his palm slid over that waist, the blond swore to himself that he had finally decided: that curve was, undoubtedly, his favorite part of Kyle's body. That lasted precisely seven seconds, until the king rolled on his stomach in his sleep and Kenny had that perfect view of his parted thighs. He approached his face to see from up close that little crease between his ass cheeks and the back part of his thighs. He wasted no time before gently biting his delicious flesh, so soft and pale, rubbing his face against Kyle's buttock. He had recently discovered that having his face buried in Kyle's ass felt like heaven; it was one of his favorite places on planet earth.

His tongue circled around the entrance, feeling Kyle's asshole contract with the teasing touch, and Kenny smirked, mouthing it and sucking on that pinkish little hole while he dug his fingers on the firm flesh of his cheeks without measuring his strength, leaving red marks on that milky skin. Kyle always twitched his body when Kenny ate his ass, and it was enough to make the blond hard again, even if they had just fucked five minutes ago. Kenny loved that ass so much, every little piece of it; the soft peachy skin that looked rosier under morning's sunlight and it was irresistible, it called for him. He couldn't help but rub his face against the delicate line that separated his cheeks, those globes that were so smooth and so firm at the same time.

Kyle was still asleep when Kenny started to play with his tongue, using both hands to separate his cheeks and gain space, pressing his own face against him to suck more intensely, spreading his saliva to make him all wet. Kyle loved to wake up to this, Kenny knew by heart. Yes, he knew by heart that his toes would curl, his legs would part instinctively and he would pull the sheets with his little fingers because he needed to grab on something. Kenny loved to run his tongue down the king's spine, falling in love with every little backbone, feeling the taste of his sweat with the tip of his tongue, which was only an appetizer before he got where he really wanted and relished his asshole. They practiced this dance every single day, creating habits and crazes, as two people do when they're discovering each other's body in the most intimate way: Kenny loved to bite his foot, Kyle giggled when he had his neck sucked, Kenny ran the tip of his nose over his skin before kissing any part of his body, Kyle loved to feel and pull those golden locks between his fingers.

Kenny was already used to that room, since he'd been visiting it every night. It wasn't exactly what you'd expect of a king's bedroom; the bed was huge, just huge, much bigger than any bed he had ever seen before, but it was made of wood, like a great part of everything else in the elven castle. It was a beautiful bed in fact, richly carved by hand, coated by this gorgeous coverlet, whose color danced between green and gold, depending on the lighting, with details in yellow golden that resembled tree roots. The bed had two higher pillars that held a nice velvet curtain which Kyle never closed, and Kenny came to the conclusion that it was merely decorative. The walls had this beautiful damask wallpaper, in two tones of dark green, extremely discrete and oddly cozy. He had never met anyone with an equal taste for pillows and cushions, of several different textures, in patchwork and colors combining with the components of the room. Almost everything was green and brown, the forest colors. He had a huge stone fireplace, and by its side there was a freakishly tall statue of a creature – it could be male or female, it wasn't very clear – covered by a cloak, holding a candle. Only that the candle was real and it was usually lit, and it smelled amazing. It was probably some sort of elven divinity. That wasn't the only candle in the room, Kyle seemed to love them just as much as he loved pillows.

And also plants. God, how Kyle loved plants. He had several vases, expensive and beautiful vases that held different kinds of plants all over the place, even hanged up on the ceiling. There was tapestry weaved by important Indian masters of carpet or something like that; Kyle had explained to him how much the tapestry was worth and told him all about the art of making a rug, but Kenny didn't pay much attention, since he was too busy licking the king's inner thighs. Kyle liked his tapestry hanging on the walls, that much he knew, even though he didn't understand why someone would put a rug on the wall. Kyle also had plenty of books, a bookcase full of them, others forgotten on a table that also supported a lot of colorful glass containers, probably filled with potions. The wall across the bookcase held a huge painting portraying a bizarre scene: a forest at night, probably the elven forest, but it had a lot of hidden creatures and mythological animals that had disappeared long ago, or so told the legends. Some of those animals were humanlike, Kenny noticed, but they had immense goat horns, or were covered in feathers and had wings, but they all looked like creatures of light, hidden among the foliages, watching a great waterfall in the middle of the painting. It was magnificent. Kenny's favorite part of that room, however, was the large balcony, and from there you had the real view of the cascade that would soon be frozen. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact the elves weren't very tall creatures, or maybe it was a geographic demand, but everything in their castle's architecture was very high, raised by long columns. Kyle liked columns too, he had some in his room, and they were involved by bindweeds.

In that room they loved each other, hidden from the rest of the world. No one knew what happened inside those walls; Kenny visited him every day after midnight, took him passionately and, when it was possible, watched the dawn with him. He loved when that happened, because the light invading the window and shining over Kyle's skin, lightening his bright hair, his lovely and inhumanly red hair, was the most wonderful vision one could have in this world. It was the kind of beauty that could drive a sane man to dementia, and that's what he fought against every day. They fucked, then Kyle fell asleep in his arms, then Kenny woke him by eating him up or rubbing his hard cock between his cheeks when the morning came.

He believed they were safe.

And as Kenny believed that, savoring the king's forbidden flesh, rimming his ass like a starving man, something was happening down at the Town Hall, a building located across the castle's garden, right beside the Mother Tower. The brick walls protected a room that was hardly ever used, in which important elves gathered when secret emergency meetings were necessary. The sun was still down, and everybody was still asleep. That is, almost everybody. Gregory of Yardale wasn't. With his perfectly tidy quiff, which was absurd for that early in the morning, he walked impatiently from one side to another with his hands on his back. The first two buttons of his shirt were characteristically open, his sword was kept in its sheath, tied around his waist, and he smoothed the hilt slowly with his fingers, not saying a word. Which was unusual. Stan Marsh, who had been abruptly awakened about twenty minutes ago, was now sitting with his legs open, his arms supported on his thighs, tapping his foot anxiously on the ground. He wore a grey mantle that covered his white smock frock and cotton pants that weren't appropriate at all for an important meeting, but he didn't care. He also didn't care about his messy hair. He hadn't taken any time to get ready after getting out of bed. Stan didn't look at the other men, just stared blankly at the ground. Token Black, naturally, wore his fancy violet gowns without a single wrinkle to be seen, as if he'd already woken up composed and decent. He wore a nice vest with golden buttons, a long sleeved shirt underneath and had a thick scarf around his neck to protect it from the cold morning. He had his arms crossed, next to a window, with a thoughtful expression on his face. And Christophe DeLorne, who was wearing exactly what he had been wearing to sleep (although he was already up when they came to his room, since he didn't have the habit of sleeping at all); since the cold had intensified, he had started to wear t-shirts every once in a while, and that's what he had on. A muddy green t-shirt that hadn't seen water in a very long time. Gregory simply couldn't understand how that man didn't stink. Christophe was smoking, on his feet, next to the sofa where Stan was sitting on. Around his torso there was something that looked like a scabbard, and it held a shovel on his back. The dark circles under his eyes were deep, due to the lack of sleep, and one of his hands was bandaged. Christophe always had mysterious scars and cuts that no one ever asked about.

"I don't like this." Stan was the first one to break the silence. "I don't like this at all."

He united his hands in front of his face and touched his lips with both of his index fingers, in a visibly anxious gesture, taking a deep breath when Christophe's tense hand grabbed his shoulder and squeezed it. The Frenchman used his other hand, the bandaged one, to take the cigarette off his lips, dropping some ashes on the floor, but nobody seemed to care about that.

"I feel like we're going behind his back to stab him." Stan proceeded.

"It's nothing like that." Token explained immediately, keeping one arm crossed on his chest, raising his other hand as if he asked for Stan to calm down, although the warrior wasn't hysterical or anything.

"Unless you believe there's a reason for us to go behind the king's back." Gregory said with a terribly annoying smile, and finally stopped walking.

"Why ze fuck are we 'ere anyway?" Christophe asked directly to him, and so the debate had begun. His hand left Stan's shoulder, and he gesticulated with his cigarette between his fingers. "We 'ave nozing to do with your political sheet, what do you want from us?"

"Stanley." Token called. "I can't think of anyone else who knows our king better than you do. And there is nothing he won't tell you, there is nothing you don't know about him, even the things he doesn't tell you. And Christophe." He turned to the other man, who stared at him with a raised eyebrow. "I can't think of a man whose opinion the king respects more than yours, especially when it comes to personal things and judgment of character. That's why you're both here. You're both intimate with him."

"And isn't Kyle 'ere?"

Gregory laughed out loud in response to Christophe's question, an obviously forced and sarcastic laugh that made the human's eyes narrow at him. He didn't like Gregory. But then, of course, very few did. And Christophe mostly didn't like anyone, to be perfectly fair. So the chances that there would be any empathy between the two of them were very small. Christophe took a heavy breath, resembling a wild animal, taking a long drag on his cigarette and turning his back to all of them, walking in the door's direction. He stopped on the way to smash his cigarette on one of the silver saucers that were displayed along with matching tea-cups on the center table, since that was also a tea-room. After putting his cigarette away, he kept on walking, being watched by Stan's attentive eyes, and shortly after the warrior followed the initiative and got up from the sofa.

"I won't be a part of 'zis crap." The Frenchman said, turning his face to glance at them over his shoulders, without stopping.

Token sent Gregory a reproachful glare, then approached Stan before he had the chance to follow Christophe, but the warrior was now staring at both counselors with anger and regret.

After a moment of hesitation, Token said:

"Mole, please. I swear, no one here is against the king. I'd never put myself in such position, you know that. Don't you trust my integrity?"

His respect for Token Black made Christophe stop walking and turn around, at least willing to hear what the elf had to say, but it was Stanley who replied, raising his index finger to point it at Token's face, spitting in a surly voice.

"You're following him on this." Signing towards Gregory with his head. "Don't talk to us about integrity. If you truly thought that what you're doing was right, you wouldn't have to do it in the dark, before sunrise, hidden from everyone. This is wrong and you know it."

"Hey." Gregory interrupted before Token had the chance to say anything, getting closer to them. "Stop treating this matter as if we were causeless rebels uniting against a major power. Don't tell me you're not worried about that outsider walking among us, about the way he and our king look at each other. That's what's truly wrong here, boys. If you're not concerned about that, if you accept it, then you're free to go. But we thought you'd be as worried as we are."

There was a moment of silence. Just a moment, in fact, when all the eyes in the room turned to the blond man and then all of them, even Token, had to ponder about it. Stanley's hesitation was revealed on the subtle movement of his facial muscles, even though that hesitation was covered by a severe expression of disgust about that whole scenario. The warrior's fists were clenched in rage. He stepped forward, approaching Gregory with a frown and distrust in his eyes. He hated to admit that there was any truth in that man's words, because just like Christophe, he also wasn't very fond of Gregory. And usually he had no problem keeping it to himself, because Stan wasn't the kind of man who imposed his opinions on someone else, but it was very hard to keep it inside when it came to this instinct that ran through his veins: the instinct of protecting Kyle at any cost.

"What are you insinuating here?" He asked.

Token took a side on the discussion, bringing his tender hand to smooth the warrior's arm, saying in his calmest voice next to his ear:

"Sit down, Stanley. Please. Let's talk about this."

Through the corner of his eye, Token made sure that Christophe was standing in the exact same place, which he was, with his chin slightly lifted and his hand on his back, grabbing the handle of his shovel. He had no idea what Christophe was doing with that shovel, where he was heading to or where he had come back from with that thing, but it had nothing to do with gardening, that much Token knew for sure. The aristocrat brought his hands together, producing a foolish clap, like a teacher who tries to regain focus after a rampage with his students. Gregory gritted his teeth and restarted to walk back and forward across the room, following the wall of huge windows. Stan did as he was told, sitting back on the sofa, breathing to release the tension. He wished that Christophe wasn't so far away from him, missing the rude comfort of the other man's hand.

"We're all on the same side here." Token said. "Gregory and I have our disagreements too, but… Perhaps the nature of this relationship that our king preserves with that man is, in fact, a reason to be concerned. You know what's going on between them, don't you, Stan?"

The warrior's pupils enlarged in the dark blue color of his eyes, almost like the eyes of a lion who sights his prey. Stan ran his tongue over his upper lip, keeping his body completely still, studying the question. It was uncomfortable for him, Token knew. He could see through all the focusing techniques the warrior had learned, which he dominated with mastery, and behind his harsh expression it was very clear that any response would be simply too painful for him to pronounce.

"Naturally." It was all he said.

"And what is it?" Gregory intervened immediately.

Stan fusilladed him with his eyes, or would have, if such thing was possible. Token felt so much for him. He admired Stan profoundly. The warrior's hands squeezed nervously the fabric of his pants that covered his thighs, very discreetly, rolling his eyes between Token, Gregory and the ceiling, trying to think of an appropriate and harmless answer.

"Are they lovers?" Gregory pushed.

Stan remained in silence.

As soon as Gregory parted his lips, preparing another impertinent question, Christophe approached the other three men, not getting to close, and his husky voice echoed through the room.

"A king can fuck whoever 'e wants and owes no satisfaction to ze cockroaches Lord. Stan doesn't 'ave to answer zat."

"Oh, so you admit they're fucking?"

"Zat is none of our fucking business."

"I'm sure that doesn't apply to war prisoners. So you tell me, Mole, what do you think about your little race mate? You don't see any problem with our king, the man who should be leading a war against those rats, too busy sucking his cock?"

None of them saw exactly when Christophe pulled the shovel from his back and hit its handle on the ground, but the sound of it was rackety enough to scare them, racing the three other men's hearts, not only because of the scare, but also giving the possibility that a murder was about to happen.

"Don't make me 'urt you, Gregory." The Frenchman grumbled between his teeth. "Because I fucking will."

The sun was starting to rise in the horizon, bathing the kingdom with its light, they could see it perfectly from up there. The room was more illuminated, although still timidly, but the expensive fabric of Token's clothes shined under the beam of light that came through the windows. Stan rubbed his eyes with his hands and sighed heavily, missing the hours of sleep that had been taken from him, so that he would be there having that discussion.

"Boys." Token said. "Please. Let's not lose our focus here. Kenny isn't a war prisoner anymore, Gregory, don't get ahead of yourself. We released him for lack of proves. Our greatest issue here is: do we trust this outsider?"

"Well…" Stan said, rubbing his hands. "I didn't believe he could bring any good. But…"

Gregory raised an eyebrow and Token, on the other hand, smiled as he waited.

"But?" The blond asked impatiently.

"I've started to see… A certain kindness. True kindness. And a part of me believes that he does care about our king, perhaps because of the mercy that has been shown to him, or it could be something more intimate… I don't think it matters, to be honest. I believe he's faithful. To our king, at least."

"And he truly cares for others." Token added with a small voice.

Gregory pressed his lips together, letting the air out through his nostrils. He remembered Kenny McCormick's words for a second, those words that had been coming and going in his mind like waves on the beach. What you need to understand about Gregory of Yardale is that he hadn't always projected this need to feel superior. He didn't necessarily disagree with what he was hearing, but he disagreed immensely that it was okay for men like Token and Stan to say those things, since they were supposed to be completely devoted to the kingdom's protection. Gregory feared for the elven people. For all of them.

"And he shares his scotch." It was all that Christophe had to say, and Gregory's blue eyes turned to him, widen in surprise.

Because of all people in the kingdom, Gregory knew how much Stan and Christophe despised that intruder for some extremely personal reasons. His hawk eyes could see things that would normally go by unnoticed to the common observer: Stan was head over heels in love with his king, and all his life he had been Kyle's true love, even if in a more spiritual level. So having Kenny to come in and destroy Kyle's better judgment, driving him to insanities, must have been killing Stan on the inside. Gregory could see that. That man was a strong, virile warrior who had more courage in a strand of hair than an entire army. However, Gregory could see it, Stan was sensitive as a child when it came to Kyle. It didn't matter how selfless, how loving and caring he was: Stanley was still a man. And any man hurts and enrages like an animal when his love is lost.

And things with Christophe weren't all that different, although it occurred in a much more primitive level. Gregory knew that his relationship with the king was somewhat carnal, and Christophe worked like a wild animal. He was possessive, violent, aggressive and territorial. There was no doubt in Gregory's mind: that French ogre love Kyle in the most pure way one could possibly love another. Unconditionally. And that meant much more to a man like Christophe, who couldn't establish normal social connections with other people. Kyle was the only person who aroused the kindness that Christophe hid under many covers.

The reaction that Gregory had expected from both of those men, before the idea of Kyle falling in love with a possibly dangerous man with most likely no good intentions, involved at least a couple of broken objects, screams and punches on the wall. Not because of the sex, no. Sex was acceptable, giving that flesh was only flesh. But Gregory could see that they were dealing with something much deeper, something that could influence the king's good sense about the war, something that makes people stupid and reckless. Kyle was in love. He didn't know exactly for how long, or what was happening between the two of them, but Token knew. And Stan knew. And even Christophe, at some level, could smell it. And they accepted it.

"Have you all gone completely mad? Do you understand what's at stake here, if you consent this? What if he cuts the king's throat in his sleep?! Don't you understand how dangerous he is?"

Stan rubbed his face, having a hard time to breathe. The expression on Token's face was merciful as he smoothed the warrior's back, in a supportive gesture.

"Gregory… Don't you think that, if he had such intention, he would have already done it? He knows that he's a dead man if he does anything to Kyle, so even if he wanted to…"

"I'm tired of this." Stan said under his heavy breath, shaking his head. He got up from the couch, agonized, sending Gregory a despicable look as he spoke. "I serve my king. If he chose this man, if he believes in his goodness, then so do I. And shame on you, Gregory, for questioning his commitment to us in this war."

Token licked his lips, watching as Stan gave them his back and left the tea-room, passing by Christophe like a hurricane. The Frenchman turned his head to glance at him, then crooked it to the side, cracking his neck, never changing his stern face. He still held the shovel firmly on his fist. The sound of the double doors echoed through the room when Stan shut them closed.

"Gregory." Token said, turning to face the blond. "I share your concerns. I really do. But can't you, please, just let things happen? You've heard what they had to say. They trust the king completely."

Trust had never been his strength. Blinking slightly bewildered, Gregory glanced at Christophe, who stood still, and then faced the tranquility of Token's features. That calmness, that unshakeable serenity that was always there and usually annoyed him, in common situations. But this wasn't a common situation. Kenny's words came back to his mind, disturbing him, and he couldn't disguise it on his face: he twitched his cheek muscles, narrowing his eyes, taking his hand to his forehead for a moment. He had to think. He couldn't understand why or how could Stanley have such unbearably blind faith, even when he had every reason on earth to declare a riot. It made no sense. Just like it made no sense that the most incredulous person on this planet, Christophe, had tried to get off that discussion instead of offering himself to personally cut Kenny's head off.

The optics from which Gregory saw the world was different. That's why he was always in disagreement with everyone else, and that's why living in society was such a wearing task for him. Being the bad guy all the time was hard. It was so very hard.

He had learned to always speak his mind because he had the gift of the gab and it was his best weapon to survive in this world. But in that precise moment, Gregory of Yardale decided to do something he had never done; he didn't argue about it.

"Fine. Let's do it your way."

Satisfied with the appeased situation, Token nodded his head and left the room. He had to get back before the sun was completely up and the life in the kingdom started. He saluted both men with his head and left with his chin up, willing to deal with his own conscience.

So there were Gregory and Christophe.

It didn't take long for the Frenchman to try to leave the room. But during that last few seconds in which they were both alone, they exchanged a look. A long look, although it didn't take more than a three or four seconds, but it felt like it was much longer than that. Because they were emerged in a non-spoken certainty that they shared the same idea. And Gregory frowned, asking him:

"You can see it too, can't you?"

Christophe could. He didn't look always, he didn't even blink. Just put his shovel back where it was and said:

"I will not help you."

And left.

While the meeting in the tea-room was finished, Kenny came inside the king's body, pulling his hair back tightly with his hand, having those beautiful ginger curls coiled between his thick fingers, smiling with his mouth really close to Kyle's ear. The king was covered in sweat, in prone position, breathless. He whined in a small voice when Kenny slid his cock out, but Kyle always whined, and it was one of the most beautiful sounds in the world to the blond man's ears.

Kenny lay exhaustively on top of him, with his face emerged in Kyle's wild hair. They didn't have much time, soon the rays of sunlight would be shining all over the kingdom and it would be difficult to sneak out. But he gave himself the luxury of taking a few seconds to rest, feeling his skin against Kyle's, their sweats mixing together, his heart pounding in the same rhythm as the king's. It was perfect.

"Kyle." He mumbled.

"Yes." Kyle replied with his face smashed against the pillow, since he didn't have the strength to lift his head. His voice was funny and stuffy.

"I think I love you."

. . .

The king was sitting on his throne, like every king should be. His glossy crown glistened against the sunlight that penetrated the insanely high windows of the main saloon, and the golden beam lightened a part of the king's delicate face, causing him to narrow his eyes and straighten up to divert the light. One of his hands played with his face, smoothing his chin and pressing his bottom lip between two of his fingers, like someone who's thinking really hard, and his facial expression reinforced the idea: there was a small wrinkle of concern shown between his eyebrows, his bottom lip was slightly salient and his eyes were deeply focused on the floor, which was decorated by a long yellow carpet, but Kyle wasn't paying attention to the carpet, since his mind was somewhere else.

Token bowed for him, taking a graceful hand to his chest before saying:

"Your Grace."

The king's terribly green eyes finally focused on the man before him. The throne was put on a slightly higher level compared to the ground, so he had to look down. Kyle didn't smile for him, just took his hand away from his face and grabbed the arms of his throne.

"Have you done what I asked of you?"

"Of course, Your Grace."

"Very well." Kyle said before cleaning his throat, pressing one hand against his cheek, as if he was bored, and the position of his head made the crown crook slightly to the side on his head, making him look like a child. However, he wasn't bored and he wasn't a child. Token dominated all his attention. "How did it go?"

"As expected."

The king looked around, observing the four guards in the saloon. There were two guarding his throne, one on each side, and other two guarding the huge entrance door. Kyle licked his lips before stretching one arm to the guard on his right, not touching him, just catching his attention. The man held a lance longer than his own body.

"Please, leave us alone." He asked in a soft tone, looking at only one of the guards, but the other three understood perfectly the command.

One by one, they hit their lances on the ground and relaxed their position, lining up to leave the room to guard the outer side of the door, guaranteeing privacy for the king and his guest. As soon as the double doors were closed, Kyle relaxed his body on the big and comfortable throne, sighing tiredly.

"How did Stanley react?"

"It was hard on him. But he discarded completely every insinuation that Gregory made, you know, he is blindly on your side."

"What about Christophe?"

"Christophe wanted to put a hole on Gregory." He replied with the hint of a smile that soon disappeared.

Kyle didn't hesitate in letting out a loud laughter, covering his mouth with his hand.

"Your Grace, I really don't mean to be petulant here." The man proceeded. "Forgive me if that's how I'll sound. But do you mind explaining to me what the purpose of this little theater was? At first you asked me to keep it a secret. What did you ask me to convoke a meeting?"

Kyle smiled at him.

"Things have changed. Token, my friend, men like Gregory need to make sure that their opinions are heard. The damage would have been much worse if we ignored him, letting him think whatever he wanted and speculate with God knows who about my intimacy."

"Yes, I understood, Your Majesty. But I thought you wanted to be discrete. Why bring more people into it?"

"You have to understand this, Token." Kyle said as he united the tip of his fingers together, right before his face. "Gregory is a good man. But his mind goes to dark places. He expects the absolute worst of people. He is extremely self-centered and we see on others what reflects us. What he expected from Stan and Christophe was that their ego spoke louder and they sided with him for personal reasons."

"Because they love you." Token complemented in a thoughtful voice.

"Exactly. What made them ideal for his little conspiracy. Gregory lives to serve this castle, Token, all he wants is to protect our people against the evils of war. He fears that I'm blind with lust. And he forgets that… Love isn't sinful. That Stanley and Christophe would never turn against me because love is much above the ego. Gregory can't understand this. And I'm deeply sorry for him."

"How could you know that they wouldn't listen to him? It was too risky, Gregory is a persuasive man. If we had spoken to them first, told them so that they understood…"

"Their reactions wouldn't be worthy if they weren't real. Gregory had to see it for himself that they trust me."

Token's mouth became a straight line and he nodded in comprehension, lowering his head a bit. In that moment, the king got up from his throne and came down the two steps of the little stair that separated him from his counselor, raising his hand to gently touch Token's face. His fingers smoothed the dark skin that contrasted beautifully with his creamy one, and the counselor raised his head a little to meet the king's serene gaze, offering a small smile of consolation.

"Thank you so much. I'm immensely grateful for your fidelity to me." Kyle whispered close to his face. "I know you fear for all of us."

"But I saw it, Your Grace."

Kyle's eyebrows rose. He slid his hands to the sides of Token's neck, caressing his jaw with his thumbs.

"What did you see?"

"I saw the goodness in him. I saw it with my own eyes. And I see it in your eyes when you talk about him, you know he's good. So tell me, please, Kyle. Do you love him?"

The king took his hands off him, but didn't pull away. He stretched his neck so that his lips would meet Token's face, the soft cheek with his beard always perfectly shaved, and kissed him with a brother's tenderness. And as he pulled away, with shiny eyes and his crooked crown, Token saw the same small kid who spent hours in the library with him, when he was a prince who had no idea of how terribly soon he would have to become a king. Token couldn't resist the temptation of straightening the crown on the top of his red head, smiling for him.

"I do." Kyle said, not returning the smile, with disturbed eyes.

Token rolled his lips into his mouth and held his breath for a few seconds. Then he nodded, relaxing his shoulders.

"Then you have all my support, Your Grace. I give you my blessing."


	13. Brotherhood

"Ike! Stop playing with the silverware, goddamn it, how many times do I have to tell you?" Kyle rampaged, leaning over the table to reach the spoon that his little brother was trying to balance on his nose.

"But I want to show Kenny my trick!" The boy retorted with a teasing smile, so contagious that the king couldn't help but smile too, although he fought harshly to keep his annoyed expression.

They were eating on the huge balcony, which had lots of plant vases and a round table in the center. Kyle loved brunch tables, he believed it to be the most beautiful meal of the day. And it was indeed. It had been set with a beautiful white hand embroidery table cloth, made by his grandmother, and a white china set printed with a Victorian scene involving little children and a canoe. It was lovely. The cups matched the saucer, the teapot, the sugar basin and the butter dish. There were several kinds of homemade jam distribute in different jars, decorating the table with their vivid colors. The smell of fresh coffee filled the air, mixing with the delicious smell of warm bread; there were all kinds of breads separated in lovely baskets. Cakes and pies were shown in crystal platters, so perfectly confected that they didn't even look eatable, but Kenny didn't mind trying each and every one of them just to make sure. There were many fruits on display too, all put together in a delicious contrast of colors; bright red pieces of watermelon, shiny apples, green and purple ridiculously big grapes, slices of pineapples, papaya and some other exotic fruits that Kenny had never seen before, since they were typical from the elven land.

"The table is no place for tricks, you can show him later. Eat your papaya."

"Good Lord, you sound just like mom."

"No, I don't." Kyle said quickly, frowning as if he was hurt by it.

The whole scene made Kenny, who was chewing a grape, cover his mouth to contain an inevitable laugh, hoping that the king didn't notice it and saved him a scolding. It didn't work quite well, naturally. Kyle was spreading mulberry jam on a toast, so his hands were busy, but that didn't keep him from poking Kenny's arm really hard with his elbow.

Kyle hit him a lot. When they disagreed on something, when Kenny teased him or misbehaved, Kyle took great pleasure in hitting him; which was a surprise at first, because until then, Kenny had never met someone so graceful, who seemed to float instead of walking. Anyone who looked at him would simply assume that he couldn't hurt a fly. And he probably couldn't, but even so the slaps kept coming so naturally, because Kyle was completely passional when it came to his intimacy. Inside the room, he wasn't a king. And Kenny loved him so much more when he was exposed like this, allowing himself to be natural and flawed. Kyle's slaps didn't even tickle him, of course. It was playful. If anything, it was the other way around: it brought up this urge to kiss him so bad, and it was freaking hard to resist the temptation of wrapping his arm around Kyle's lean body to bring him closer and kiss his annoyed little face. Being discreet had never been one of Kenny's strength.

Ike seemed completely oblivious to the exchange of glances and smiles going on right there, since he was too distracted poking his papaya with his spoon, as if he wasn't too sure of what to do with it.

"Kyle's just like our mother. Only that she was much bigger and louder. You'd have liked her."

"But she would have hated you oh so much." The king complemented, reaching with his hand to smooth Kenny's cheek, and the blond glanced at Ike and smiled shyly. Kyle laughed, not only because of his rare shyness, but also over the idea of his mother interacting with Kenny. It was absurd.

Oh, how she would have disapproved. But things with Sheila worked just like that, you couldn't count on her approval. She was a very difficult woman who hated everything she couldn't control. She was the real queen. Gerald had been a great king, yes, but the one who truly ruled that kingdom all those years before her death was Sheila. She was the strongest person that Kyle had ever met, but despite being an overbearing fortress, she was also the most caring mother in this world. She wasn't a rigid person afraid to show her feelings, oh no. She was very protective, very maternal, and therefore, very controlling. Kyle could remember her much better than Ike, and the memories were so clear that some nights he could still feel her warm embrace, the softness of her roly-poly body, the feeling of her breasts pressing tightly against him because her hug was always so smothery. Her skin always smelled nice, and hugging her usually resulted in having your face smeary of cream. Kyle hated the moist feeling, it made him all icky, but he always thought of this with missing. That was the feeling which reigned over all the other ones when he thought of Sheila: he missed her. So deeply and so ravishingly that it hurt his bones. Such a big and loud woman could never leave this earth without leaving behind a hole that was impossible to fill.

Indeed, Kenny would have liked her.

"What happened to her?" The blond asked him, yanking him back to reality.

Kyle let go of the little knife used to spread his jam and stood still, holding the toast close to his lips, thinking about it for a moment before saying:

"Tuberculoses. It's been eight years."

"Are your parents alive?" Ike asked with his mouth full of papaya.

The disapproving stare that Kyle sent his younger brother made Kenny laugh again, although he didn't know exactly if that disapproval had to do with his question – which the king might consider inappropriate – or the fact that Ike was talking with his mouth full. Ike's cheeks were protruding, like the cheeks of a little rodent who fills his mouth with food to stock for the winter. It was quite adorable.

"My dad isn't." He said in a gentle tone, as if that could give the boy some comfort. After all, it seemed too cruel for such a young kid to lose both father and mother so suddenly.

"What happened to him? And your mom?"

"Ike." Kyle reprimanded, but Kenny quickly took one of his hands to grab the king's arm softly, smoothing it over the scrumptious fabric of his mantle.

"My dad was an alcoholic, he had a liver disease. We were really poor, so we had no money for the treatment, he lived a few months after being diagnosed. I think I was about your age when he died. And my mom… She may be alive, I'm not sure. You see, Ike, I lost a younger sister when we were all fighting for a revolution, me and my brothers. And that really screwed my mom up, so she left Kupa Keep right after, saying she didn't want to watch all her children get killed. We had family up in the North, she went to live with them, but I don't know if things are any better there. We've never heard from her again. My sister, the princess, tried to reach her when they took power of the castle. Because now she's rich and all that shit, she wanted to bring mom back." He stopped for a moment to consider that it was curious how Butters had been the only one to put an effort in finding the woman, since he was also the only one who wasn't her biological child. "But… I don't think that ever happened."

Somewhere in the middle of Kenny's words, Stanley showed up on the balcony's door. Kenny was sitting with his back turned to the door, so he didn't see the warrior come in and didn't even notice his presence until Stan was standing beside the king's chair, putting a gentle hand over Kyle's shoulder. The redhead caressed his hand, but didn't take his eyes off Kenny. Ike remained focused too, and Stan just waited without saying a word, not wanting to be invasive.

"Wow. I hope your mom is okay." The boy said in a small voice that showed genuine concern, not just some obligatory consolation. Kenny offered him a light-hearted smile that told Ike not to worry, because that was truly a healed wound for him. The boy then lifted his chin and faced the warrior with a smile. "Hey, Stan. Is it time already?"

"Time for what?" The king asked, turning to face the man standing beside him.

But it was his younger brother who answered:

"We're training every morning. Stan is showing me how to swing the sword now, since I'm very well-trained with the arrow."

"Finish eating first, Ike." Stan said kindly, taking his hand away from Kyle's shoulder. "I'm not in a hurry."

Kyle pulled a chair and offered it for Stan to sit down, but the warrior took a long time before doing it. He stood on his feet with both hands behind his back for a few seconds with a trace of smile playing across his lips as he watched Ike devour his fruit, holding it on his hands by now, giving up the spoon. It was too complicated. Kyle shook his head negatively, but it was hard not to laugh while the boy ate with such stamina, getting the zone around his mouth all besmirched.

"Stan is taking me to the White Birch tonight. You guys should come too." Ike said after swallowing the papaya, rubbing the back of his hand on his mouth to clean it up.

"Oh, it's so wonderful at winter." Kyle observed, raising his cup of tea and pointing towards Kenny, who was probably the only one there who had no idea what the hell the White Birch was. The blond noticed how the king's slender fingers delicately held the tiny cup, which was an immensely difficult task for his own rude hand. The cup was just too small for him. "You'll love it."

"Stan said it's cold enough to see the Aethelwines. What do you think, Kyle?"

"Well, the ground is covered with snow. I think it's quite possible."

"What the hell is an Aethelwine?" Kenny asked, having a hard time pronouncing the name.

Stan finally sat down next to the king, resting his elbows on the table – something that Ike would get a good scolding if he had done, but Stan could put his elbows on the table all he wanted.

"We call them Alfies." The warrior explained. "It means friend of the elves. Or elf power, depending on the origin. They show up only when it snows, in the White Birch forest. You can come if you want, but you have to be really quiet. They scare easily."

Kenny's eyebrows rose in surprise, glancing at the king, parting his lips before he knew what to say. Stan had never been even remotely inviting to him before. Soon enough, a bright smile shined upon the blond man's features.

"I can be really quiet."

. . .

The White Birch was, by far, the most magnificent place that Kenny McCormick had ever seen in his life. He had never had the opportunity, or even the interest, of reading books; but on the rare occasions when he had read books about other cultures, he remembered the pictures of elven forests so well. They were famous by a primordial quality: they were magical. And not only because they served as a shelter for several (literally) magic creatures, but especially because of its fantastic biology. The plants were exotic, the colors were extravagant, the nuances of light emanated from the leaves that danced right before his eyes, as if they hid the greatest secret of the universe, tricking you. Those forests seemed like a grand illusion. But they were real. And the White Birch wasn't like any other elven forest that he had heard of before. It was the opposite of all the other forests that lost their leaves and died during the winter: that forest died during summer. It was dry, ugly and lifeless as long as there was heat; but as soon as winter came, it transformed into a fantastic structure that looked like it was made of crystal. The trees were gigantic, and looking up at them, their thin branches covered by a white mantle seemed to form the design of real snowflakes. Among the trees there was a completely frozen river that shined as if it was studded with millions of diamonds, reflecting like a mirror. All the whiteness strongly contrasted with the blackness of the trunks, which were slim. The forest seemed to pulse, as if it had its own light, even in the pitch dark of the night.

The sky, from down there, looked like an ocean. They were so far away from the lights of the town and the castle that the stars turned on the night, making the sky so bright that it was like the Milky Way was visible to the naked eye. The moon was so huge that it felt like, if you climbed a tree and stretched your arm, you'd be able to touch it. But it was all an illusion.

The river was cut by a bridge that was covered with a thin layer of white, just like the ground, creating small hills snow on the soil. Resting over the tree branches, Kenny could see black birds. He didn't think those were the called "Alfies", but Kyle hadn't wanted to explain to him what those creatures looked like, using the argument that they were something to be seen. Many times, Kyle laughed of his questions and pointed them out as childish, finding his cultural features to be funny somehow. Kenny didn't know if he was supposed to take offense on that, but he chose not to, because the king's smile was just too beautiful to be questioned. Anyway, the black birds watched them mindfully while the four lads crossed the bridge quietly on their feet, as if they were the guardians and that bridge was some kind of entrance. Kenny had no idea what kind of bird those were. The only black birds he had known before were crows (and he was very conversant with them, because there were lots of them back in the house where he had grown up), but those definitely weren't crows. Under their wings, you could see a mix of colors that changed depending on the light: something between navy blue and dark green, reminding Kenny of a peacock's feather. The weirdest part was their horribly yellow eyes staring down at the men.

Ike was walking in the front, more anxious and excited than the rest of them. Stan took him there every year, it had become some sort of tradition between the two of them because sometimes you'd have to be very persistent to see the Alfies, and it wasn't an easy task to keep the persistence in that cold. Ike had such persistence, probably due to his genetics, but Kyle didn't. Stan knew how susceptible to the cold Kyle was, so he was more than happy to go with Ike, having a great resistance to low temperatures himself. Kenny came from the South of Zaron, where the weather is much more pleasant and the snow rarely fell, so he was having the hardest time of them all. He was chittering, but didn't even realize how freezing it was, since he was so amazed by the wonderful view. Ike took a peek at him every now and then, looking back and smiling. Not watching where he stepped, the boy crushed a stick with his foot, projecting a loud and unpleasing sound that made Kyle whisper behind him:

"Careful."

Just ahead, across the river, the forest seemed to get even denser. There were more trees, and they were crooked, giving the impression that there was less space to walk through. Stan walked right behind Ike, guiding the way with his index finger, since he knew that forest like the palm of his hand. When the path was too narrow because of the branches, Stan opened the way with the blade of his sword, quickly and silently. It was impressive. Then they arrived at a clearing. The moon light fell over them in that wide space, cutting through the trees as if God himself was sending them a message. Now, they could see the giant moon, so close that it looked like it was about to collide against the earth. They felt like they were in a painting.

Kenny could see his own breath in the cold air of that night, like the smoke of a cigarette. He narrowed his eyes, stopping farther behind the other three. One of his feet was on a tall tree root covered with snow, like everything else around them. He stopped because he had heard something. The other three walked into the clearing as if they had heard nothing, but maybe it was because they were expecting that sound. It sounded like the chant of dozens of cicadas, only much more suave, even pleasant to the ears. Kenny looked up, then around, but he couldn't see a thing. Nothing that would explain the noise, at least. The trees kept slightly swinging to the wind's blow, but there was no animal in sight. The watching birds weren't there either, although the silhouette of some could be seen flying up in the sky. Ike stopped walking too. He turned around, and Kenny could see his wide smile full of joy and dazzle. He could see the glow in the boy's eyes, as if Ike could see something that he couldn't. In just a few seconds, Kyle turned around and gestured that Kenny came closer, which the blond promptly obeyed, quickly walking towards the king and standing beside him. Kyle grabbed Kenny's arms and pulled him to the front, trying to put the man in the right position, then stood behind him and waited.

The four of them were enlightened by the moon, which served as a spotlight. A few small snowflakes soon started to fall slowly from the open sky above their heads, so infinite. Ike smiled like a child, opening his arms to receive the snowflakes that shined under the haven of the moonlight. The hue of illumination made them look like small spots of light.

"Holy shit." Kenny whispered with all the honesty in the world, and Kyle let out a small laugh.

Perhaps because "holy shit" was the only possible description to what they were seeing.

Because those were, indeed, spots of light.

They weren't moving according to the wind, no. They had their own will. Kenny frowned when a few of the snowflakes rapidly diverted to the side, floating to the safety of the woods, disappearing from sight. It was only when one of the flakes fell extremely close to his face that Kenny could see the pair of little black eyes blinking in that white spot. Drove by instinct, the blond took a scared step back, but Kyle's firm hands were still on his arms and held him still, while the king quietly laughed next to his ear. Kyle was substantially shorter than him, so he had to get on the tip of his feet for his chin to reach Kenny's shoulder.

"Calm down." He said in a placid tone, caressing Kenny's sides. His words weren't much louder than a whisper.

"What are those?"

"They're Alfies."

Ike had two of those things landing on his nose, and the boy was laughing over the slight tickle, letting others rest on his fingers, keeping his hands close to his face so he could see them. Now Kenny realized how they were relatively bigger than actual snowflakes (although the resemblance was absurd). They weren't like the fantastic work of nature that snowflakes are, no, they were little floating pellets, round and fluffy. And they had their own light. And they blinked with their little eyes that could be no much bigger than a pinhead. Some of those little things orbited around Stan, who also carried on his face the smile of a young boy. The warrior raised his hand to touch them with the tip of his rough fingers, and the touch was surprisingly gentle. It was hard not to smile before that scene. Like the falling snow, more of them started to show up, some timid and frightened, floating away as soon as they realized the presence of people. Others seemed to enjoy company. Mostly all of them were chanting in a subtle voice, knowing the song by heart. Ike seemed to know the song too, although there weren't actual words on it.

As they got closer, Kenny could feel that they were cold to the touch. Kyle stood right beside him, and Kenny immediately wrapped one arm around the king's shoulders, pulling him closer, watching carefully as the redhead raised a hand to offer the Alfies his palm. As if they were familiar with that hand, five or six of those little creatures ran for the palm, playing between themselves. Kyle smiled with his shiny eyes, glancing at Kenny a couple of times before bringing his hand closer to his lips, blowing gently over the little guys. Their tiny eyes shut close and they shook their round bodies, releasing some sort of golden pollen that was carried by the wind like dandelions. That's what they looked like to Kenny. And it was beautiful. Kyle smiled to the blond and offered him the Alfies, but Kenny shook his hand negatively, fearing that he would crush them or something. But that didn't stop the little ones from floating from the king's hand to Kenny's face, causing the blond to laugh and frown in response, lowering his head. Other curious Alfies fell on his hair, as if they wanted to smell and feel the different energy of the unknown human. They tickled so much.

"They like you." Kyle said with a wide smile, and Kenny felt like he had just passed a huge test of approval.

He was relieved.

. . .

On the way back to the castle, Ike spent over ten minutes talking excitedly about the Aethelwines and the tales about their existence in the elven mythology, telling Kenny each little detail he had ever read. Just like his brother, Ike had an immense thirst for books, which couldn't be genetic, since Ike had been adopted by the king and the queen when he was still a baby. He hadn't even been born in Zaron; he was from a Nordic country, which could explain his uncanny resistance to the cold. But both of them, Ike and Kyle, were so much alike on many things. They loved to read, they were easily irritable, were incredibly strong and resilient, rarely cried. Kyle was walking a few steps ahead, with by his side Stanley, and the two of them talked quietly while Ike laughed and told Kenny about the first time they took Christophe to see the Alfies. Apparently, Christophe pushed away the first one who tried to get closer, hurling it across the clearing. Ever since, the Alfies were terrified of him. And for some reason, Ike found that to be extremely funny. He looked pleased that things with Kenny had turned out differently.

When they approached the castles, Kyle and Stan turned to face each other. Stan wrapped his arms around the king's waist and they hugged tightly, taking their time. Stan kissed his face tenderly, while his hands caressed the redhead's back, and he whispered something on his ear that made the king smile. They were saying good night. When they parted, Kyle turned to face his younger brother, reaching for him to get closer.

"Come, I'll take you to your room."

"There's no need, I can go by myself."

"Don't argue."

Releasing a grunt of frustration, so typical of a teenager, Ike wished goodnight to Stan and Kenny. Kyle gazed the blond with a hint of a smile on his face, then reached for him and caressed his face slowly, saying nothing. He didn't have to. Soon they would meet again. Stan stood on his feet, not moving, with his arms crossed to protect himself from the cold. It was too dark for them to see the expression on the warrior's face, whichever it was. They were still a little far away from the castle, next to the immense trees that guarded the entrance of the large garden, since they would take different paths from there: Stan would go to the right, following the stone way that leaded to army lodging, a small village built on the castle's land, with enough space for the soldiers and knights to train. He had a beautiful house there. Gregory, who was their general, lived next door. He'd have to wake his men up at five a.m., so he really needed to rest. Ike and Kyle slept on the castle, naturally, so they crossed the garden arm in arm, arguing about some unimportant conflict that could involve them for over an hour, because every Broflovski loved to argue, or so told the legend. And Kenny would go back to his shed on the back of the castle, into the woods. Kyle gave him that shed because it was convenient for their nightly meetings, he didn't want Kenny to get a house on the town. But Kenny would go there only to take a quick bath and then he would sneak back to the king's room, which was too far for his taste. Kyle had paid him a night visit once, by surprise, and it had been quite pleasant, but the king swore he would never fuck in that mattress again.

While he thought about it, Kenny didn't realize that Stan was still standing there, with his hands under his wool poncho, trying to warm them up. He wore thick brown leather gloves, but his hands were cold anyway. The warrior watched him with a sentiment that later Kenny would identify as "curiosity". He cleaned his throat when realized that he was being watched, licking his lips, feeling gawky.

"Thank you… You know, for inviting me."

"I didn't invite you. Ike did." Stan replied in a steady voice, but soon a modest smile came to bright his face up.

"Yeah, I know, but you were… Cool about it."

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Oh, gee, I don't know. You're not exactly the official president of the 'We love Kenny McCormick' club."

Stan took his hand off his poncho to scratch his head, messing with his dark hair that urgently needed a wash. Under the giant moon's sturdy light, he gave Kenny his childish smile. And it felt so honest.

"Yeah, well." The warrior finally said, shrugging. "Like you said… Kyle loves you. So how bad can you be?"

Kenny had to laugh. He liked Stan.

. . .

Every night, his route was the same. He would leave the woods, jump over the low wall of bricks that leaded to the large back courtyard, cross it, pass the small garden of petunias (or whatever the hell those were, Kenny didn't know squat about flowers), then he would climb the stone stairs, finally arriving to a long and strait passageway that surrounded the side of the castle, separated from the garden by a low stone wall. Kenny followed that way until he got to a backdoor, an entrance to the castle's kitchen, which the workers used during the day to carry provender inside. Many times, during his night walks, Kenny found Christophe wandering around at the back of the castle in the middle of the night, carrying his shovel, digging holes. It was creepy. He lived close by, in a much smaller shed, located much deeper in the woods. Kyle had offered him better life conditions several times, but the Frenchman had no interest in moving out. Christophe would always stare at Kenny when he saw the blond heading to the castle, and most of the times, Kenny would stare back. But that particular night, Christophe was nowhere to be seen, which was good. Anyway, that kitchen door was forgotten by the world: it wasn't guarded by any elf, it was simply locked by the cookers at night, before they went to bed. Kenny used that door during the day too, since he was treated as a worker, and he often found Pip Pirrup peeling potatoes there. Kenny had become his friend. In fact, he had become friends with every kitchen worker, and a great part of the castle's servants in general. Kyle gave him the key to that door and voilà! He had total access to the castle.

It was the same route he was planning to do that night. He had taken his bath, therefore he smelled very nice, had fresh clothes on, his body felt warmer and he was ready to dive in that giant bed and devour the king entirely. It was the only thing on his mind since that afternoon, at brunch, when Kyle kept playing with his foot on Kenny's groin under the table. That little whore. He'd pay for it. Kenny rubbed his nose as he climbed the little stone stairs, but a strange sound made him stop for a second. Below the low wall, there were only bushes. Tall and thick bushes. Kenny thought he had heard something coming from the plants, but didn't give it too much time, frowning and getting back on his way. Then he started to search for the rusty key in his pockets. The wooden door was divided, so the upper part and the bottom part opened separately. Kenny usually opened the bottom part and crouched to get in.

But the key never made it into the keyhole that night.

As soon as he stood in front of the door, still looking for the key in his pocket, he heard the noise again. And this time, he turned his head to look around just in time to see a pair of hands come up from the other side of the low wall, grabbing on the edge. Bit fingernails with dry blood on them. Dirty hands full of scars. Kenny widened his eyes and frowned at the same time, unsure if he was supposed to be scared or just confused by it. He pressed his back against the door as soon as Kevin McCormick's face appeared.

And then he panicked.

His older brother climbed on the little wall with no difficulty (after all, he was trained for this sort of thing), then sat on the edge and put his feet on the ground of the passageway, slightly puffy and completely covered with soil and snow, filthy as a street dog. His clothes were torn by the brushes, and he took a moment to clean his face using his dirty shirt, which wasn't very successful. His heavy breath could be seen when collided with the cold air; Kevin was shivering, that was evident. His body was protected by useless brown cloth, and under it there was a striped red and black shirt that made him look like a pirate. It took Kenny a while to realize that, yes, he was real. The younger stood completely still, in shock, as the other McCormick straightened up and wiped the cold sweat off his forehead, standing on his feet with the most disgusting smile on his face.

"Hello, little brother."

As if he had been pulled out of his trance by those words, Kenny threw himself at Kevin's direction, grabbing him by the thin fabric of his shirt, looking both ways with a terrified expression, pulling his brother harshly to press him against the castle's wall, as if this would be enough to hide him from anyone's sight.

"Fucking hell, Kevin!" He whispered in hysteria. "What the fuck are you doing here?! Jesus Christ! You can't be here."

Kevin McCormick wasn't an ugly man. Like Kenny, he had his father's features (none of the children looked like their mother, not even Karen), but it he had inherited something from his mother, it was his eyes. Sharp hazel eyes, aggressive and certain. He was much more crooked than Kenny, and that was a resentment that he had carried along since he was a child. Kevin had protuberant bones on his face, a big nose and he had been very toothy as a kid, and although his features had developed into a quite attractive man, he still didn't have the perfectly symmetrical face of a prince like Kenny. He also didn't have those wonderfully blue eyes like Kenny. He didn't have the charm, the nice smile, the good hair like Kenny. Their precarious situation with money resulted on Kevin's teeth, which weren't straight to begin with, turning out very yellowish. He had a huge scar on his forehead that went down to his eyebrow, something he had earned on a fall from a tree during one of his missions. And Kenny had never taken a moment to notice that on his brother before, but something about his wide smile, his crooked yellow teeth, his scar, his dirty skin and specially his cynical tone made Kevin look extremely ugly.

"Well, dumbass. I came to help you, what else?"

"No! Fucking Christ, Kevin." Kenny said, trying his best to keep his voice under control, letting go of his brother's dirty clothes to cover his face with them, stepping back. "You're gonna fuck everything up if you stay here!"

"Damn it, kid, keep your shit together." He replied, tapping Kenny on the back. "You were going in to look for the stick just now, weren't you? I know you've been sneaking into the castle every night, you bad boy. Cartman is tired of waiting, he's creating all sorts of conspiracy theories, Lord knows what crawled into his ass lately." Kevin's arm involved his brother's shoulders and pulled him tightly against his body, messing with his hair using his free hand in a boyish way. "But I told him: hell no. That's impossible. My bro Kenny is just a little slow, that's all, he's learning a shit or two about the art of stealing, aren't you, Kenny? You can't do anything without me."

"Keep your voice down, goddamn it. Fucking shit, Kevin, that's…" And the voice died on his throat, leaving him with only a lost hand gesture. Kenny rubbed his eyes and tried to get rid of Kevin's arm, nervously pushing him away. "This is bad. This is really bad. You have to go."

"Hey. C'mon now, what is this? That's no way of receiving your big brother. I crossed that freezing-ass forest, smelling horse shit every day, sleeping on the ground, forbidden to build a fucking fire and that's how you thank me? Fuck you."

"You shouldn't have come! I'm… Christ, I'm working on it, okay? Go away."

"Kenny. The king is done with you "working on it", alright, he wants his goddamn stick. Do you know what he's been saying around? That you quit. That the elves fucked up your head." He made a gun with his hand, pointing it to his own head in demonstration. "That they brainwashed the shit out of you."

Kenny didn't respond immediately to that. His mouth was a straight line, which Kevin could only see partially under the weak light of a wall torch and the moon that shined freely upon them. But he saw how his little brother swallowed dry. Kevin's eyes narrowed in distrust.

"I'll be damned. Was fatass right about you?"

Kenny didn't say a word, just looked at him, and it was enough for Kevin to grab him by the collar and push his body against the wall with an angry frown, making his face look like a Neanderthal's. Kenny pressed both hands against his chest, trying to get rid of Kevin's violent grip, but when he realized it was useless, he decided not to fight. It would be worse if he pissed Kevin off even more.

"What the fuck is this, Kenny?" He asked much louder than he should, forgetting about the discretion. "Have you lost your freaking mind?! Don't tell me the fatty was right about you being a traitor son of a bitch!"

"No, no! God, no! Fuck, Kevin, it's nothing like that. Nobody's brainwashed me. It's just… It's complicated."

"There's nothing complicated about it. Either you're with us or you're against us. Have you forgotten that he has our sister on the palm of his fucking hand?! How longer do you plan on staying here playing house with your faggy fairy new friends? Do you want to watch your whole family starve to death, is that it?!"

"Kevin, I don't…"

Before he could say anything else, Kevin shoved him harshly against the brick wall, making him hit his head on the hard surface and grunt in pain while his brother pressed him tightly, holding his collar with a very furious grip. Kevin was famous for his iron arms. Kenny's hands were free, and he could have knocked his brother down with a punch, but something about Kevin's hurt voice simply made him unable to react.

"No! I will not stand by and watch you become a traitor little shit! Not even over my dead body. Where do they hide the stick? You already know it, don't you?! Tell me, you fucking fag!" He shouted at Kenny's face, who closed his eyes when he felt the stink of his brother's breath. Kevin hadn't brushed his teeth for days.

After that, everything happened too fast. Kenny tried to say that he didn't know, keeping his eyes shut tight over the discomfort and the terrible smell, but in less than five seconds, Kevin wasn't grabbing his collar anymore and his stinky breath wasn't entering Kenny's nostrils. Kenny opened his eyes just in time to see Christophe – who had come out of the absolute nowhere, as far as Kenny knew – throwing himself over his brother like a hungry tiger, knocking him down in front of the wooden door, punching him hard in the face and pressing his knee against Kevin's stomach, making him grunt in pain. Recovering his senses very quickly, Kevin lifted his torso and swore, but Christophe didn't pay attention because, right before he could react, the Frenchman grabbed him by the wrist and raised his hand to press his hand firmly against the wooden door, skillfully reaching for a knife on his belt, tightening the handle between his fingers and using all his strength to bury the blade right in Kevin McCormick's open palm.

And Kevin's shrill cry echoed in the open skies, a cry that he had never let out before in his life, that came from the top of his lungs, so desperate and uncontrollable as the sharp blade of the knife pierced through his flesh, tearing among his little bones, lacerating his nerves and veins until the tip of the knife met the wood of the door. Christophe pushed in harder so that the knife was buried deep in the wood, nailing Kevin's hand in place. Kevin's eyes were widen in horror with the realization that his hand was stuck, screaming continuously as he stared at his own bloody palm, trying to move it, which only served to cause an even more excruciating pain rushing through his whole body. And Kenny was still standing there with his back pressed against the wall, feeling his legs turn into jelly, resting his hand on his forehead, watching that scene with his lips parted and his eyes staring in total shock, feeling his brother's screams burst inside his ears. And he just wished it would stop. He wished it hadn't been real.

Kevin held his own arm with his free hand in a hysterical grip around his wrist, hitting his head against the door repeatedly, crying without even realizing it among his screams. Christophe, on the other hand, was frighteningly calm, as if this sort of thing was only natural to him. He straightened up and turned his face to spit on the ground, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his arm, turning around to face Kenny with a stern expression, completely indifferent to the agony of that man on the floor.

"Are you 'urt?" He asked the astonished blond who stared at him.

That calm voice felt like a snap inside Kenny's brain, as if it had ripped him off a dream. He took both hands to smooth his hair back, breathing heavily, then pointed down at Kevin, on the edge of despair.

"What? I can't… Holy fucking shit, Mole, was that really necessary?!"

"I'm asking if ze bastard 'urt you." He repeated patiently, demanding him to pay attention, briefly checking Kenny's body with his eyes, not finding any visible wound.

"What?! No, he's… No! Jesus Christ!"

So the Frenchman crouched next to the agonized man and held him carelessly by the hair, pulling his head back in a harsh movement, ignoring his cries as the he twitched on the ground yelling "my hand" over and over again.

"Stop being a pussy, I didn't amputate it." He told Kevin, then raised his gaze to Kenny and calmly said "Go call ze guards."

"What?!" Kenny said once again, making Christophe snort tiredly. Kenny was nearly shaking over the adrenaline, smoothing his wet hair back compulsively, unable to close his mouth. "Holy fuck, what the hell have you done?! This is crazy, I... I can't do this!"

"Kenny." Christophe said loudly and impatient. "I can't 'andle ze two of you screaming in my ears at once, so I'm giving ze priority to ze guy whose 'and I just stabbed. You calm ze fuck down and go call ze guards. Now."

"You're fucking nuts, why did you do that?!"

Christophe took a long, heavy breath. Kevin's moans and grunts of pain were slowly loosing strength, but he was still crying and uselessly trying to get rid of the Frenchman's hands that held him still with no delicacy. He was losing his patient.

"I've mobilized ze intruder. I'm getting tired of your sheet 'ere, just go and call ze guards right fucking now."

"You son of a whore!" Kevin mumbled, nearly voiceless, with his eyes full of tears that ran down his dirty face as he shook his head that was tightly pushed back, getting weaker. The blood ran down his arm by now; a vein had been burst. He couldn't breathe. "I'll kill you, you fucking bastard… Help me, you fucker! What are you…"

And Kenny McCormick was presented with a choice.

Christophe, for some reason, wanted to help him. He probably hadn't heard much of their conversation, since he believed that Kevin was simply trying to harm Kenny and enter the castle. The French had his hands occupied, holding down his brother who was twitching in horrible pain with one hand nailed to the door, and both were at mercy of his decision. It wouldn't be hard to pull that knife out and stab Christophe's skull, now that he was completely unwarned. He could revenge the blood of his blood, the flesh of his flesh, reunite with his family and retake the path from which he should have never deviated in the first place. He thought of his sister and the wonderful luxurious life she had at the castle, and how happy, beloved and respected she was as a princess. He thought of the people of Kupa Keep, how the return of the stick could beneficiate his kingdom. But he couldn't be sure of that. He didn't know what the powers of the stick would do the Eric Cartman's unstable mind. That man was an oppressor, ha had betrayed everything they had fought for together, side by side. Cartman was always talking about how the stick belonged to the human people, how it could be used for the people's sake, but Kenny didn't believe him. He didn't know what else to believe anymore. He didn't believe in his brother either, this man who had once been his hero, and now was about to throw up on the floor and Kenny felt no urge to help him.

He believed in Kyle.

As he stood there on his feet, lethargic, he could hear the distant yell in a heavy French accent (which got even heavier when he was nervous):

"C'mon, you idiotic beetch, what are you waiting for?! Move!"

And that was the push he needed to turn around and run. Run as fast as his legs could carry him, against the cold wind, slipping on the thin layer of snow, praying to God that the French lunatic didn't break his brother's neck while he was away, shouting in the darkness of the night:

"Guards! There has been an invasion!"

. . .

Only a few meters from there, over the thick branches of the tall trees that surrounded the elven garden, hidden among the dense foliage, the large pair of stunned eyes watched the whole scene, with a raced heart and open lips, as a storm of terrible thoughts exploded in his brain. In the middle of pure chaos, Craig Tucker considered jumping off that tree and running for his friend's rescue, but something kept him from moving. And when he saw Kenny running the opposite direction and calling for the guards who would take his brother to the tower, to lock him up as their prisoner, Craig knew exactly why his instinct had mobilized him: he would need help. He would need to head back to Kupa Keep and tell his king that Kenny McCormick was a lost man to them. He would need to report how their fellow had delivered his own brother to the enemies on a silver platter.

"Christ, Kenny." Craig whispered to himself. "What have you done?"


	14. Where loyalty stands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a decent amount of gore here. Not too much, since I'm not a gore fan myself, but here I am, warning you. I'm so nice to you, don't you think? Oh, and also: smut. Always smut.

"He's your brother?!" Kyle asked, trying to make some sense out of Kenny's confusing babble.

The king was sitting on his bed, half-naked, with his bare feet hardly touching the wooden floor. He had his hands united between his thighs and the muscles of his shoulders were tense as he watched the blond incessantly walk from one side to another across the room, rubbing his face and shaking his head. Kenny had said many things, from which Kyle understood very little. Only a few minutes before, the blonde had been banging on his door, almost desperately, on continuous knocks until the door was open, and you wouldn't need to be a very good observer to understand that something very wrong had happened. The king had asked him a lot of questions and made terrible assumptions, imagining the worst scenarios possible, but it took Kenny a long before he could formulate complete sentences to narrate what he had seen: an intruder invaded the castle and went after the blond, but before his intentions were clear, the Mole interrupted the conversation with something that involved a knife. Of course, Kyle thought. With Christophe, there was always a knife involved.

"For all the gods, Kenny, how many siblings do you have?!" It was all that the king managed to respond.

"That doesn't... Fuck, are you even paying attention? Your sick French guy pinned his hand on the fucking door! He is… He was bleeding all over!"

The king frowned when he pictured the image in his head and then shook it, trying to ward off the terrible thought. Christophe always made use of some very primitive methods, and that was one of the things the king admired the most about him, because sometimes such courage was necessary. Kenny couldn't stand still for a second and it was starting to disturb Kyle. The blond man's sleeve was a little bloodstained, the king had noticed as soon as he opened the door to let him in, and now that dirty hand was waving desperately in the air while Kenny stuttered meaningless words out of his mouth.

"What did he want? You told me you haven't talked to your family in years."

"I don't know... He wanted to find me, I guess." He said, but his voice hadn't been convincing enough. He knew that. Since he had left the scene, rushing to meet the king in his room to report what had happened, Kenny's brain refused to function properly. But now, he had to think. Fast. He had to come up with justifications. "He probably... I don't know, you sent a letter to Kupa Keep. You told them I was here, didn't you? That's what you told me. Maybe he wants to take me back, I don't know, you have to let me talk to him so that I can find out what the fuck he's doing here. He won't speak to anyone else."

"Calm down." Kyle said in a tone that made Kenny frown, because it was very similar to the tone of an adult who totally disregards the nonsense of a child. Which, to be honest, was something that Kyle did very often, but until then, it had never bothered Kenny. If anything, he even thought it was cute. The king got up from the bed and headed to the huge closet, opening it with no haste, carefully selecting what he would wear as if that was more important than their discussion.

Kenny watched him the whole time with an expression that danced between confused and annoyed; his chest went up and down rapidly, out of exhaustion and anxiety. Things had finally started to become clearer to him, and Kenny wished they hadn't, because the weight of his decision finally began to fall over the shoulders: his brother, the only person who had been there his entire life (for better or worse, mostly worse) would be thrown into a cold cell just like the one where he lived at when he got to the elven realm. He could remember very well of each cold night he had spent shivering on the cell's floor, with an infected eye and bleeding cuts, a dislocated jaw, all wet from his own piss, spewing to the point where he thought he would lose consciousness because his bones ached so much. But the unconsciousness never came, to his disgrace. He remembered the feeling of the cold floor against his skin, and he simply couldn't get warm, even though it was only the end of fall. Winter hadn't come yet. He was just a threat of danger to the elves, but no one knew for sure why or how, and even so they had starved him and deprived him from drinking water. He had been so hungry and thirsty that sometimes he just wanted to bang his head on the floor until he passed out. Kenny was terribly afraid of what they would do to Kevin, who was much more uncontrolled and aggressive than him, and worse: who was a declared attacker. Declared by his very own brother.

"Where are you going?" The blond asked when the king was done putting on his coat.

Kyle's hair was messy, since he had been lying down while he waited for Kenny, about twenty minutes before, and his face was slightly swollen from a nap he'd taken when Kenny took too long to come. The king reached for his shoes that were on a chair beside the door, and sat on the same chair to put them on, taking his time, pulling his boot's shoelaces as tightly as he could. He took a few moments to answer the question, and when he did, his voice came out in a tone of obviousness.

"A man has been arrested in my castle. I need to know what happened."

"I'm telling you what happened!"

"With all due respect, my dear, your emotional state is not very reliable right now. I need to talk to Christophe and to the guards who arrested him. I need to know what brought this man here."

"All right." Kenny said with a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "Let's go, then."

"No, Kenny." The king responded with a firmness that was very unusual between the two of them, finishing tying his boot and uncrossing his legs, tapping his feet gracefully on the ground. "You go back to your house and sleep."

"The fuck I will! Kyle, that fucking lunatic stabbed my brother." He said, raising his voice, gesturing towards the door. "You will let me talk to him!"

A shadow fell over the king's features, but the blond did not flinch: his fists were clenched and his chin was slightly lifted, his mouth half open while waiting for a reaction, ready to fight back. But for a few very long seconds, Kyle just stared at him, masking any thought with a rigid expression. Calmly, the king stood up, putting one foot in front of the other in a movement similar to a snake ready to attack. Kyle raised his index finger to point it toward the blonde, frowning, licking his lips as if he had to think a bit before he said anything. He stopped only a few feet away from Kenny.

"Do you honestly believe that you have any right to give me orders?" He asked in a low voice, talking between his teeth, filled with a rage that made Kenny narrow his eyes. "Inside this room, I can kneel before you and bow to your very will. But don't you ever forget that, in the matters outside these walls, I'm a king and you will do exactly as I say. Have I made myself clear?"

The blond man took a moment before nodding his head, swallowing his words dry. As a rebel and a libertarian, such hierarchies made little sense to him. Even so, he did what the situation demanded of him, as a smart man: he approached the redhead with caution, taking a hand to his own chest, whispering:

"I am sorry, Your Grace. I didn't mean to irritate you."

Kyle shook his head.

"Very well. Go back to your house. Tomorrow you can talk to your brother. I give you my word."

Kenny licked his lips and passed by him briefly, keeping his head down as he tried to leave the room. But Kyle wrapped his arm around the man's torso to stop him from walking further, which made the blond hold still after a moment of hesitation, and the two men stared at each other with their faces very close. The blue eyes did not want to look at him, but Kyle involved his jaw with a gentle hand, feeling under his fingers the beard that began to grow through his skin, trying to offer a smile. Kenny didn't smile back.

"I command you to kiss me." The redhead whispered with his lips near the other's chin.

Kenny's eyes finally focused on him, but the human remained motionless for a moment, brushing his teeth at his own bottom lip, slightly nervous. He took his hand to cover Kyle's on his chest, giving him a light squeeze before pushing it away, although not abruptly, looking away to the door before continuing walking, getting rid of the king's arms. He needed to get out of that room.

"Kenny." The king said hesitantly, but his call went unheeded.

. . .

The two McCormick brothers sat across each other, separated by a wooden table that felt very familiar to Kenny: he had been questioned in that squalid little room a few times when he was held prisoner. The room seemed less grim now that he didn't have his hands tied by a leather strap that locked their bloodstream, though it still looked terribly claustrophobic and filthy. Maybe it wasn't the same room that Kenny had known, because that one where they were in had a window that lit the environment relatively well; it was quite possible that the window had been there the whole time, but Kenny hadn't noticed it, since he was always questioned overnight, under the orange light of the torches on the walls. Now, the natural morning light made Kevin's face painfully visible to his brother: he didn't seem to be badly hurt, disregarding the obvious bruises on his forehead and cheekbone. Kenny believed that Kevin himself had caused those bruises by hitting his face on the wall several times the night before. He wore the same clothes, which were still equally dirty as they had been the previous night.

The two men sat in silence for over a minute, which seemed a long time to be in a room with someone without saying a single word. Kevin didn't make eye contact, while Kenny stared intently, biting his own lip in anxiety to say something. It had been very difficult to convince Kyle to let him talk to his brother alone, with no guards present, but eventually the king came along, since Kevin had refused to say anything to anyone and would not say a word while there was an elf (or ally) in the room. After all, this was the instruction given to all the thieves from Kupa Keep. Kenny knew that very well.

"How is your hand?" Kenny asked timidly, finally breaking the silence.

Kevin's eyebrows rose to the question in an ironic way. Kenny could not see the wounded hand because his forearms were supported by his thighs and his hands were between his legs, hidden behind the table that separated the two of them.

"My hand? Oh, you mean this one?" He replied as he bent his elbow to lift the forearm, and Kenny had to contain a gasp before the realization that there was no hand there anymore; the extent of Kevin's arm ended at the wrist covered in bloody bandages. For a moment, Kenny couldn't breathe. After a few seconds, Kevin lowered his arm again, smoothing it with his remaining hand, gritting his teeth in a mixture of anger and shame.

"No, Kevin... Jesus Christ, no." It was all that his brother could say, in a desolate voice, staring at him with eyes full of pain. He put his hand on his forehead and bowed his head a little, shaking it hopelessly. "Holy shit."

For a long time neither of them said anything. Kenny put his elbows on the table and kept his head down, rubbing his face, unable to see how attentively Kevin watched him, tightening his jaw and snorting impatiently about the other man's compassion, because it made no sense to him. Kevin ran his hand through his greasy hair and looked away, rolling his lips into his mouth as if that would help to contain a trace of tears that threatened to form in his eyes. He would never come to shed those tears, of course, because the McCormicks had never been taught to cry. They had been raised amid the dark and deformed things that shocked the weak. They were braver and unbreakable. They came from the gutter, the lowest of the low. Nothing could make a McCormick cry.

"I didn't see you leave yesterday. When they pulled the knife out of my hand, I started to lose a lot of blood and the pain made me pass out." He began to tell, making Kenny lift his head to face him, but Kevin kept his face turned to the wall, staring into the void, narrating it as if he was reliving the scene. "I woke up on a table. I don't know where they took me, but there were four or five heads upon me. I thought you'd be there, but... You weren't. I saw the bastard who stuck the knife, the one with the ridiculous accent, he was yelling at someone... 'Cut it off at once,' he said. 'You funky pussy, hurry up, he will die if you don't cut it off.' I wanted to get up, but they had tied me down, those smart little fuckers. I couldn't move. I was awake, the whole time I was awake. They needed me alive, of course, they wanted to interrogate me. And there was this guy... A doctor, I think, he said 'No! We don't have to cut it off. We can save the hand.' I didn't feel the pain anymore, I think my body went into shock or some shit like that, the adrenaline numbed me. But I could not breathe. None of them saw that I was conscious, they were too busy arguing, screaming about my hand as if it was just a piece of meat... So that French rat took a fucking hatchet. That shit was all bloody, Ken, I saw it. He grabbed it like a butcher and guess what he said? 'It's merciful', he said. 'He would be in pain all his life because of the torn tendons, it's merciful to amputate.' He even did the job himself." Kevin stopped for a moment to shut his eyes tight, seeing in his mind the moment when Christophe grabbed his wrist and cut his hand off as easily as he'd have sliced a pig. He shivered, snarling low before proceeding. Kenny's watchful eyes never left his brother. "It's only mercy, he said. Fucking son of a bitch."

"Kevin, I didn't know... I had no idea they would…"

"And would it have made a difference if you knew?" The older brother asked in a bitter snort. "That's what your loyalty is worth? Your honor is worth a hand?"

Kenny narrowed his eyes and parted his lips, sniffing with the nose slightly reddish, and then put both hands on the table and leaned slightly toward his brother.

"'Honor', you say? We are not sworn knights of the king's guard, Kevin. We steal. We have no honor. Tell me one thing: do you know what will happen if you take the stick to Cartman?"

"Of course I know. I 'm not stupid. The man is a maniac, he'll rule as the tyrant he truly is. But I've got news for you, little brother:" Kevin leaned his elbow on the table, the bandaged arm that once held the lost hand, pointing it toward Kenny as if I there was still an index finger to threaten him. "We put him there. You and I, together, with a rebellion, and every single rebel has made this man our king. You think you can play house with the elves now, living here with your fairy friends and pretending you're one of them, but you're not. And you'll never be. Can you imagine what they will say when they find out that you are a traitor bastard who came here to steal from them?"

"And why the hell haven't you told them that?" He replied defiantly, raising his eyebrows. "Don't tell me it's to prove your loyalty to family, because I know you, Kevin. Don't pretend you're any nobler than me. We're both trash."

Kevin let the air out slowly through his nostrils and leaned back on his chair, keeping his elbow on the table, relaxing his body. He looked at his brother with contempt in his eyes and his lips trembling, tightening his jaw and lifting his chin with the little remains of his pride. Unshed tears were more evident now, shining in his eyes - which were the most exotic and beautiful hazel eyes of Zaron, a mixing nuance between brown and green – in such way that intimidated Kenny, making him retreat too.

The blond gulped.

"I must not give them any information. That won't change over my personal feelings of betrayal. I don't want the elves to prepare for an attack. The more secure those fags think they are, the better for us. And besides... At this point, you're a dead man, my brother. Cartman wants your head, and he'll have it. I thought you might enjoy some good fucks in this ruthless world before you die. A man, good or bad, deserves at least that."

"And what makes you think that I'm fucking someone?"

A genuine smile appeared on his older brother's lips.

"I hope you are. It's the only reason why a man betrays his own beliefs, his own values and his own blood. Fucking makes us men stupid." He cleared his throat and hemmed. Kenny waited for him to spit, but Kevin just grimaced. His dark blond hair fell over his eyes and a grin dominated his lips. "What's her name?"

Kenny's blue eyes pupils, which didn't even blink while they stared harshly at the other man, enlarged at the question. The movement of his face's muscles was extremely subtle, but not enough to disguise the disturbance he was feeling inside. Kevin raised his eyebrows as he watched, and for the first time, Kenny looked away and lowered his head in shame.

"Kevin, listen..." He began to say, but his voice was still uncertain. He rubbed his thumb on his other fingers, with both hands resting on the table, pressing his tongue inside his cheek as he carefully considered what he was about to say. At last, he looked back at his brother. "I haven't abandoned you. I couldn't... Christophe had your hand stuck on the door and a belt full of knives. He is so fast, Jesus. If I hadn't called the guards, he'd immediately realize that I lied. He's a like a dog, he can sniff those things. And he would have made mincemeat out of us. And even if I could kill him... Which I honestly didn't want to do, but if I did, then what? If I took that knife out by myself, you would bleed out and faint, you could fucking die. And don't think I could carry you, but then again: even if I did, where the fuck were we suppose to go? Kupa Keep is too far away, you wouldn't be able to ride the horse I presume you came with, and we could freeze to death in the woods. Understand. I had no choice." Kenny raised his butt from the chair to lean over the table, resting his elbows on it, bringing his face as close as possible of his brother's. "Yes, you're a prisoner, but this way you have an ally out here. Someone who's free and can help you. I won't let them do anything to you, I swear."

Kevin took his hand to his mouth and started to rub his jaw, closing his eyes as he listened, turning his face aside as if the words hurt him physically. Maybe he really was in pain, because he could still feel the amputated hand and his nerves were throbbing as hell. Taking a deep breath, finally letting out a chuckle as he shook his head negatively, he said:

"Let's not pretend this has anything to do with loyalty. You'll help me so that I don't blow your cover. The question is: how long do you think this will work? Do you understand what's going on here? The elves and the humans will want a piece of you when Cartman invade this fairy kingdom and cut all of your little friend's throats."

Kenny hit with both hands on the table, angry, only wishing that he would stop talking.

"This won't happen. I have the High Elf by my side."

Before any more words came out of his mouth, Kevin's eyes widened for a moment, and a grin of realization enlightened his filthy face. All that escaped his lips was a contained groan of perception, a small "huh" which Kenny didn't appreciate very much. The younger laid his head slightly to the side and scratched his scalp, closing his eyes for a moment, then sighed deeply and sat back down, dropping the weight on the chair with a grunt of relief, rubbing his forehead. Kevin's features were now serious, with one extremely curious gaze studying his brother.

"That is..." Kevin finally said. "Until he finds out that you were lying to him all along. Let's see if any king will be by your side when this happens."

"I already chose which side to serve." The blond replied with his chin up, uniting the fingers. "The elves hold the stick, they do not use it. I don't know where it is, but I don't want to find out. Cartman will refuse me? That hardly matters now. Because I refuse him as my king. I refuse to continue being his slave. Things are different here, Kevin. These people have kindness, they will understand."

"Oh , I saw the elven kindness." He spat bitterly, showing the amputated limb. "In fact, I had the pleasure to feel in my own flesh how kind they are."

"Do I need to remind you of what they would have done to an elf intruder in Kupa Keep?! I... Damn it, Kevin, I hate myself for letting this shit happen to you. But I swear. My brother, I swear. The stick is safe here. And taking it back just because of some personal lords' feud won't do any good to our people. I'm not running away. If we join them, we can cut that tyrant's throat and our sister can have the royal throne that she deserves. We can end this war."

Kevin's only hand grabbed on the chair armrest as he leaned his torso forward and let out a loud laugh, though it was laden with sorrow and bitterness; a wicked laugh of a man who dreads getting insane. Kenny frowned at his reaction, slightly scared of what he was seeing in his brother's eyes.

"Heavens, Kenny! How dumb can you be?! You are not an elf. I'm sure as hell not a fucking elf."

"I share their beliefs now. I will serve them."

The maniacal expression on the older brother's face soon gave way to an immeasurable pain, for which he narrowed his eyes and shook his head in a lost manner, as if he did not want to hear such things. Carefully, Kenny leaned his arms on the dusty table, with both palms up, offering his two hands to the man on the other side, and his face was nothing but compassion. Kevin repudiated compassion.

"Please." Kenny whispered. "I will do you no wrong. I won't disappoint you. I'm with you, my brother. I always will be. I swear for Karen."

"Do not say that." Kevin replied with hate in his voice. "Do not use her name to say things you don't mean."

"I swear for Karen." He repeated quietly.

The tears that Kevin McCormick swore he would never shed threatened to accumulate inside his eyelids, but he swallowed them along with unjust words, trembling. He put his hand on the table to meet his younger brother's, but Kenny did not close his fingers around the hand placed on his palms. He waited, his eyes directed to Kevin's other arm, the bandaged arm that caused his shame.

Taking a deep breath, Kevin put his other arm on the table, taking to Kenny's hands what used to be a strong hand, firm and manly, able to climb trees, buildings, mountains even, if that was his purpose. Kevin McCormick would never climb a mountain. Never again would he climb a tree with the skills of a monkey as he did before. Never again would he serve as a renowned thief to the castle. And thinking about those ugly things made him lower his head until his forehead met the table's wood, crumpling his moist nose on its hard surface. And there, with his head down and his younger brother gently holding his hand and his deformity, Kevin cried as silently as he could.

. . .

Kenny parted his legs a little bit further, opening a weary smile as he ran his hand through those hopelessly red curls that belonged to the little head that moved up and down between his thighs. Kyle could put the whole damn dick in his mouth, which never ceased to be delightfully impressive. He forced his face against Kenny, feeling the thick cock sliding deep into his throat, choking a little on it, and then slid it slowly out of his wet lips, taking his time only to suck on the head of his dick, as if he enjoyed teasing the other man. Kenny grabbed a lock of red hair between his fingers and pulled harshly, forcing his hips up in order to penetrate his mouth deeper, moaning loudly as his come streamed down the king's throat, and Kyle swallowed it in a very thirsty way, squinting, his moans muffled by the cock in his mouth.

Once the king raised his head, with come dripping from his lips, which were showing a satisfied smile, almost as pleased as Kenny, the blond took a hand to his soft cheek to cup it and stroked his pale skin with his thumb, gently passing it over Kyle's bottom lip. His mouth was swollen and reddish. Kyle caught his thumb between his lips and sucked on it lightly, with his pupils dilated and his eyes' irises looking greener than ever, staring at the man's face intently. Kenny could barely open his eyes, his breath was breath was heavy and his body was sweat-soaked. He raised his hand to Kyle's hair, messing them playfully while pulling him closer, powerless to move. The redhead crawled over him with a short chuckle, kissing his lips with desire, pressing his face against Kenny's, feeling his scent, moaning as he adjusted his body over the blond and lay between his legs, settling his head on the other man's sweaty chest.

The king's hands caressed the side of Kenny's naked body, feeling it under his palms, pressing his fingers lightly on the pale flesh. Kenny put his arm lazily around the king's skinny body, letting one hand wander blithely through his bare back, feeling the softness of the skin, pressing his fingertips.

"I hope this means we're alright." Kyle whispered as he closed his eyes, rubbing his face against Kenny's chest hair.

The blond only replied with a faint moan, distracted, as if he had no interest in starting a conversation now. And in fact, he hadn't. He continued to stare blankly at the ceiling, thoughtful, as his hand stroked the king's hair, which was also wet with sweat. His silence made Kyle proceed, raising his eyes to see him:

"I know you're upset because of your brother. It was very cruel, what happened to his hand."

"Nothing 'happened' to his hand, don't talk as if it was an unfortunate accident." Kenny replied in a tone harsher than he had intended it to be, and that was the exact reason why he didn't want to prolong the subject.

Kyle sighed and brought a hand to Kenny's face, caressing his cheek with the back of his and, watching him with those huge green eyes that were so hard to resist, but Kenny couldn't read what the king's expression actually meant. The hand gently forced the blonde to look at him

"My dear... Please, understand. Your waiver of Kupa Keep is very admirable. You are a good man. But your brother has told us nothing because he was instructed to, because he is hiding something. He is siding with Cartman's cruel reign, he invaded our lands in the middle of the night. If he intended to take you back to that place..."

"'That place' is my home."

That was enough to silence the king, though his lips remained slightly parted as he leaned on his elbow to raise the torso, lifting his head to look at Kenny with a frown on his face. Kyle turned his head subtly to the side, in an interrogative, but wasn't able to ask the question on his mind. Maybe because he was already sure, or maybe because he was simply too terrified of the answer. It was too late to retreat by then. Kenny held Kyle's face firmly with both hands, and Kyle wished he hadn't, but accepted the touch without pulling away. The blond approached his face to the king's, lifting his head from the pillow.

"Kyle, listen to me. I love you, I swear for all the gods, I love you; with all my heart, all my soul, my whole body. I never lied about that."

It was then that the king's hands wrapped around Kenny's wrists to ward them off, kneeling on the bed, straightening his back.

"What are you saying?" He asked quietly.

"But I lied." Kenny continued immediately, sitting up as well, putting a hand on his own chest. The king's expression did not change. "I lied about what brought me here. I... Damn it, Kyle. I didn't want this, I swear, I didn't want to come, but Cartman..." The hand rose from his chest to his forehead, which he began to rub, breathing heavier. "He said he had been so generous to my family, and he could take that away from us at any time if I didn't know how to... Some bullshit about dancing to the music, I can't remember now. He wanted the stick, saying that it was rightfully his. He spoke of the elves as if they were manipulative, sneaky, so I never expected to feel something... Not only for you. I have never felt so at home in my entire life. I truly care, Kyle. About you and Ike and Pip and even about fucking Stan, if you want to know. I care! I am no longer on that fat asshole's side, you... You changed everything. You have to believe me."

When the blond tried to approach him, Kyle simply raised his palm, ordering through gesture that he kept his distance. And Kenny respected it. He watched nervously as the king went to sit on the edge of the bed, giving the blond his back, licking his lips and taking a deep breath. He couldn't see Kyle's face, so he wasn't sure of what to do next. He crawled on the bed to get a little closer.

"Kyle, I... What we have… Whatever we have is real. You know it is. This has been eating me alive, I couldn't lie to you any longer. I know I should have told you long ago, but... When I look at you… Jesus, I'm so fucking terrified of losing you, you have no idea. I'm crazy about you. So please, I'm asking you. Try to understand."

He stopped talking when the king arose, his nude body backlit by candles, so pale and so beautiful, showing his lean back and exposed ass. Kenny wanted, more than anything in this world, that Kyle turned around to look at him.

And as the king did, Kenny soon wished he hadn't.

The expression on the redhead's face wasn't what he had expected to see. It wasn't filled with sorrow, or pain of betrayal, or even resentment. It was not weepy, fragile or exposed. There was no heartache there, no hurt, no sadness. There was only one thing inside those magnificent eyes, a unique feeling that dominated the king's face and his entire body: rage. So the redhead leaned, getting closer to Kenny's face, and whispered in an intense, calmly repressed voice:

"I will have your fucking head cut off."


	15. Flesh and bone

It was during the break of dawn that the bravest warrior climbed the Mother Tower's staircase, where all the prisoners were taken to incarceration. The warrior's feet, which wore boots made of animal hide, led him as fast as possible to the top, where the traitor resided. As a warrior, Stan Marsh had had to learn some basic concepts throughout his life. First, he learned that death comes to us all. Then he learned that there are clean kills and dirty kills. He learned about honoring the enemies who deserved it, and about tearing apart those who were unworthy of honor. He learned how to use the sword masterfully, as if it was an extension of his own arm (and iron became his favorite instrument of death, although the Elven army was mostly composed of great archers). And of all the men who Stan Marsh had killed, he had never been motivated by personal reasons. Stan didn't enjoy killing, that was the truth, but becoming a warrior was hardly a matter of choice: he had been born for it. It was what he was. Blood didn't bother him, the torn flesh and exposed organs didn't bother him. That was another thing he had learned, one of the most important lessons of his life: that living beings are just bags of meat that can be easily destroyed. Stan understood his mission, not only in a philosophical standard of living, but also on a practical level. He was a man who would do his duty even if it brought him to an untimely and cruel death.

While climbing the tower's endless staircase, he was not a man doing his duty. No. Stan Marsh clutched the hilt of his sword, which was kept safely in the sheath, and his free hand was a clenched fist of hate, his beautiful dark blue eyes, like the sky at dusk, could see only the blood. He thirsted for blood, as never before in his entire life. His features of a vital and gorgeous young man had now become marked lines of expression, making him look so much older, his lips rolled into his mouth, his nose puckered, a frown on his angry face. He was in pain. Actual physical pain.

"Stanley!" The voice of a man called for him, many steps below. But the warrior did not hear. And if he did, he didn't seem to care.

He kicked the door at the top of the stairs with all the anger accumulated in his body, entering the hallway that divided the cells full of attentive guards who had been troubled by the blustering noise of his entrance. When they saw Stan, a face that was very well-known and respected by them, all the elves put their spears on guard position. Every step the warrior took made the wooden boards at the top of the Mother Tower emit obstreperous sounds that heralded the arrival of something bad. He stopped only to find the cell door number 907, entering the room and ordering the responsible guard to open the cage immediately. Bradley Biggle stared at the man, who was snorting like a horse, but didn't move because he was uncertain of which order he should follow; the king had specifically told him that the prisoner could not have any visitors, but Stan Marsh was the extent of the king's orders, so denying him anything did not seem right. It was only when the warrior shouted him to open the fucking cell that Bradley finally made up his mind, obeying him as he trembled.

Kenny McCormick did not completely understand what happened next. Up until that point, he had been asleep. He was awakened by the sound of angry shouting and the iron door of his cell opening. Before he could regain his full consciousness and his senses, there was an enraged man on top of him, so enraged that he had the need to scream at each punch that hit the prisoner's face, from one side to another, repeatedly, until the blond was spitting blood. Kenny's beautiful cheekbones, a feature of his face that had been constantly complimented during his life, now felt like they were crushed under his flesh. His deep blue eyes were pressed into their sockets at every encounter with Stanley's angry fists, which were also bleeding, but the warrior couldn't feel any pain. Kenny could, yes, he was in very much pain. He could feel some of his teeth softening in his gums, his cheeks cut on the inside, throbbing on the outside, his skull aching more and more at every thwack against the hard floor, the flesh and skin of his face full of bruises that would be dreadful the next day. His hair, which not long ago had been so stunning, so clean and gold in the sunlight, was now thick and drenched in blood. And Stan's words burst inside his ears, hurting him more than anything else:

"I trusted you, you prick asshole son of a whore! We all trusted you!"

Bradley, who was at the cell's entrance, completely stunned as he watched the scene, unable to react, was suddenly pushed hard to the side while Christophe stepped into the room in a hurry, shouting curse words in French - but not high enough to overlap Stanley's indignant voice - and ran out to meet the two men on the ground. Kenny's hands involved the warrior's face and squeezed it with all the strength he had left, marking it with his fingers, but now he was about to lose consciousness.

"Stan, stop it." Christophe's voice echoed next to the warrior's ear, as he wrapped Stanley's torso in his strong arms, pulling the man up to get him off the prisoner, obligating the dark haired man to eventually release Kenny's body. "You will kill 'im." He calmly spoke.

"I fucking want to kill him, goddamn it!"

Stan kicked Kenny's limp form with all his foot had to offer, twitching his torso in the arms of the man who held him tightly, trying desperately to pull away. The prisoner's only answer was a weak growl, as he rolled to the side and vomited, covering his face with one arm as if he was ashamed.

"Let me go, Mole! Let me go right now or I fucking swear..." The warrior demanded, but his voice no longer had the same force, and his uncontrollable rage began to give way to an infinitely more devastating sadness. "The king wants him dead! I know he does!"

Stan kicked the man to the floor one last time before Christophe pulled him back and threw him against the cell's stone wall, holding him by the arms tightly, shaking him to get his attention.

"Non, 'e does not. 'E is suffering, 'e doesn't know what 'e is saying." The Frenchman let go of Stan's arms and took both hands to the warrior's face, cupping his cheeks, squeezing them with certain strength, approaching his own face as he spoke. "Listen to me, boy. You're a good man, ze best I know. I will not allow you to get your 'ands dirty with zis one. You're too good to kill an unarmed man, Stanley, it will weigh on your conscious for ze rest of your life. Zink about it. Zink of ze pain zat Kyle would feel."

"He's already in pain! You've seen him, you saw how he's suffering, and you saw the emptiness in his eyes. Gods, why are you protecting this worm?! You, of all people..."

"Non, mon ami." Christophe whispered between his teeth, looking into Stanley's eyes, eyes that carried such sorrow and a thin layer of raging tears, and Christophe said it with all the seriousness he possessed, continuing to hold the other man's face in the dirty palms. "You're ze one who I'm trying to protect."

As soon as the warrior closed his eyes, mournfully shaking his head, the tears burned behind his eyelids and threatened to pour down his face as a sign of weakness, but the Frenchman spared him, pushing Stanley's head to make him rest his face against Christophe's broad shoulder, pressing one hand on the back of the warrior's neck and passing his arm around him in a tight comforting hug, the kind of hug that Christophe had never learned exactly how to give. But he tried. He uncomfortably gave Stanley a pat on the back with all his camaraderie. Stan's voice was failing, coming out very shaky and spiteful, full of bitterness, and too low for Kenny to hear him.

"I want his blood… I want his blood so badly, I want it on my hands, on my face... I want my sword tearing him from the cock to the throat, God, I want to rip his heart out with my bare hands." The warrior murmured against his friend's shoulder, accepting the embrace, shutting his wet eyes as tight as he could.

"Je sais, mon copain." Christophe's husky voice came in a whispered next to Stan's ear. But right afterward, his muscles became stiff again, which seemed like the Frenchman's body natural state, and the hand covering the nape of the warrior's neck quickly moved to the man's jaw, grabbing it tightly, forcing Stan to raise his head to look at Christophe's grim expression, those dark eyes infinitely full of certainty. Christophe wasn't an eloquent man. He wasn't a charming man either. And he sure as hell had no idea how to comfort another human being. But he was the best man to have by your side in a crisis, since he could make anyone feel safe. Everything he did, from the way he spoke to the way he walked, transpired how he knew what he was doing all the time. His voice was firm, his gaze was precise, and he talked in a way that would make you believe there was no other truth in this world. And that voice continued. "But zat desire, just like luxuriance, fades away so quickly. I know ze bloodlust you're feeling, Stanley, believe me. Don't let it blind you."

The following noise was a damp cough, giving by the moribund body on the ground. Kenny had one arm thrown over his head, hiding his face, and his other hand rested on his chest. He turned his head aside not to drown in his own blood that trickled from his mouth, choking on it, feeling the salty tears burning in his eyes. Stanley watched him with certain contempt through the corner of his eye, that beautiful man stretched out on the floor, like a dying rat, who didn't deserve to take another breath in this life, but there he was, still breathing. Christophe could see these dark thoughts invading the warrior's mind, and held his jaw even tighter, so that Stan's eyes turn back to him.

"Zis man will pay. I swear it to you." He said to the warrior quietly before releasing him.

. . .

The cigarette burned in the man's mouth, a mouth that was so used to cigarettes. He loved their taste, their smell, the tranquility that they provided him. After all, he wasn't a tranquil man. If his cigarettes were ever taken from him, well, then he would become a true monster. It had happened once before. Christophe almost smiled to the thought as he held the cigarette between his middle and index finger, taking it away from his lips and narrowing his eyes as he blew the bluish smoke. In his other hand, there was a bloody piece of raw meat he had stolen that afternoon from the castle's kitchen. As he walked, a path of little drops of blood formed behind him. Kenny raised an eyebrow when he saw that foreign man entering his cell's room, followed by Bradley, also known as Mint-Berry, who opened the gate for Christophe and then locked the two humans inside.

Kenny was sitting on the floor, resting his back against the wall, with one leg bent and both hands on the ground, one on each side of his aching body. His face was swollen, purple with bruises, some even greenish around, others darker, almost black. And they hurt. Everything hurt. Absolutely any movement would stretch his muscles in the most painful way, or make his flesh burn as hell, making him moan and writhe in soreness. As awful as it felt, there was a part of him that was actually relieved to finally feel like he was getting something he deserved. Christophe nodded to Bradley in a way that both thanked him and told him to fuck off. He didn't get too close to Kenny before throwing the raw meat towards him; it fell flat on the ground, producing a terribly moist noise. Kenny had to laugh at the situation.

"I'm not that hungry." He smirked as he said to the Frenchman, who took the cigarette to his mouth again and replied with a horribly sarcastic smile. Sarcasm made him uglier. But there was no kind of smile that seemed to fit well on Christophe's face. He had the countenance of a handsome man, Kenny had always thought, but it had been built to look serious.

"It's for your face." He explained like it was obvious, gesturing with hand near his own face to show him, forming a sort of claw with his fingers, while two of them held the cigarette and the smoke billowed across his features as he spoke. "It makes ze swelling does down."

"Oh." Kenny said in the same intelligent tone. Smiling was painful, but he preferred to endure such pain before showing the other man how getting beat up by Stanley had destroyed him, inside and out. He stretched up slowly, frowning, unable to contain the pained expression while he grabbed the piece of meat with his hand. It was cold to the touch and it felt like it had been dipped into salt just a few moments ago. "A clever man, I see. Full of tricks."

"Yes, I know a lot of zings. I also know zat your nose is broken." Christophe observed, playing with the cigarette between his lips, speaking with certain malice, lifting his chin. "'Ow about I fix it for you?"

Kenny laughed.

"I'll pass. But thank you."

He slowly took the piece of cold meat to his face, grunting in pain as soon as it touched his skin, because his cheek was throbbing and the temperature was uncomfortable. God, it was so cold inside that damn cell. Even surrounded by walls, he could still see his breath hanging in the air. He closed one eye because of the unpleasant sensation, feeling the blood run down his hand, smearing his bruised skin, breathing deeply as he watched Christophe with certain irritation. He had barely seen the man while he walked through the castles as a free man. Well, no, he had seen him quite a lot, but it had been always on accidental encounters from a distance. It was easy to notice how social contact with clean and free people was harder to Christophe than contact with the scum.

The Frenchman pulled a stool that was forgotten in the corner of the cell, dragging it to place it right next to the iron bars, then sat down with his legs wide open, resting his elbows on his thighs, enjoying his cigarette as his eyes studied Kenny unhurriedly. The blond man stared back. Christophe sniffled, rubbing his nose with the thumb of the same hand holding the cigarette, and he was the first to break the eye contact, but it was Kenny who broke the silence:

"First you take that mad dog off me. Now, you bring me a lovely gift for my injuries. Soon I'll start believing that you have a crush on me."

"Stanley Marsh's fists are too good for your face, blondie. And so is ze point of 'is sword. Do not confuse zings."

"I see." Kenny replied, nodding, with a condescending expression. "So you're keeping me all in one piece just so that you can tear me apart in the end? Jealous of your hunting prey, is that it?"

The Frenchman no longer looked at him. He seemed to be entertained staring at the stone wall, playing with his tongue inside of his cheek, holding the cigarette out of his mouth as the burned ashes threatened to fall on his thigh. He didn't react to what he was told. In Christophe's eyes, Kenny could see, danced a memory of distant times, perhaps even equally distant places, a thousand leagues away from that tower. Christophe's eyes always had a different kind of look, it wasn't like most elves, that soft and unconcerned way of looking at things. And he also didn't have the look that most humans had, because to have that look on your face, you'd have to have seen hell. Kenny recognized in the other man's expression something that felt so familiar to him: it was the way his brother looked. It was a shadow, an expression of one who has seen the ugliest side of all that existed.

Remembering of his brother made the blond shiver.

"Tell me something if you can, Mole." The prisoner spoke in a tone of clemency, very different from the mockery that had adopted by him hitherto. However, he lifted his chin in pride, unwilling to beg for anything, staring at the other man who seemed to ignore him. "How is my brother?"

The ashes finally fell on his thigh while he took the cigarette to his lips for a long drag, not reacting to the mess. He was used to it, anyway.

"Alive."

"Suffering?"

"No more zan you, I believe."

Kenny let out a small chuckle, closing his eyes, shaking his head without giving it a response. Christophe raised an eyebrow when he heard the laughter, smoking slowly, narrowing his eyes when the prisoner shook his hair off his face and pressed the tips of his fingers on the piece of meat he held, pulling it away from his cheek, which was now smeared with blood.

"How long has it been?" The prisoner asked.

Christophe stared for a long moment, and Kenny could see in his face that he didn't want to get into a game with him, especially one that he didn't know the rules. So he stood there suspiciously studying the blond, until realizing that he didn't have a choice.

"What?"

"A broken man has a lot of time on his hands. A lot of time to think, you know? It's not as shitty as most people would believe." Kenny said. "And all I did for the last few hours was try to understand... It didn't make much sense at first. You're a difficult man to read, Lord Mole."

"I'm no fucking Lord."

"No, you're not. And yet, there is not a single man who is more faithful to the king than you in the entire realm. That was the tricky part to understand, why the hell was Stanley the one who kicked my ass and you got him off me. You are an angry and reckless guy, driven by very simple ideals. And you're also violent, that has been established already. So... Why has our sovereign warrior hero fallen to the lowest level in need for revenge, and came up here to destroy my pretty face? Why him and not you? You both love the king unconditionally, of course, but one of you didn't feel so betrayed. One of you could digest the situation first and think clearly. And that's when I realized..." He paused for a second, his eyes widening in amazement with his own discovery, even if had been made hours before. A smile played on his lips without properly showing itself. "…That you had plenty of time to digest. You already knew it, didn't you? I've never fooled you. You never fell for my shit, you knew exactly what I was doing."

The Frenchman tried to contain a weak smile that tried to appear on his face, but his expression itself didn't actually change.

"I mean, you couldn't have known it from the beginning." Kenny continued. "Otherwise you would have told them. You'd have handed me over on a silver platter, so you were suspicious, but you weren't sure. Eventually, you figured it out. You knew. So if you can be kind enough to tell me, Mole: how long have you known?"

"You're a fantastic liar, McCormick. I imagine you've learned your little tricks from Kupa Keep's great actors, ze masters of masquerade, isn't zat what zey say? Well. I may not 'ave been born with Stanley's talent for ze battlefield, but I do know 'ow to sniff a liar. And if I 'aven't sniffed it in you at firt, it's because you believe in your own lies." Christophe's teeth now appeared between his lips, and they were a little dirty, as if he'd just chewed a piece of vellum as raw as the one Kenny held against his face. And it complemented the tone of madness that momentarily appeared on the Frenchman's features. Cigarette smoke was slowly rising and dancing in front of his face, and Christophe breathed that smoke in as he was used to it. As if that was the purest air for him.

"May I ask what turned me in?" Kenny asked curiously, laying his head lazily to the side.

"Guilt." He said firmly before taking another drag. The cigarette now wasn't much more than a butt, so small that it was about to burn Christophe's fingers if he didn't let go. The tongue inside the man's mouth ran over his teeth, looking for pieces of meat to pick. "When you and Kyle got togezer, you changed. I do believe in your feelings towards 'im, since it was zose feelings zat ruined your little charade. Ironic, isn't it? I could see ze way you looked at 'im... Like a man who 'ates 'imself, who owes somezing. Ze guilt was screaming in you."

"Why haven't you told anyone?"

"Didn't 'ave to. I knew you would, eventually."

The man on the floor coughed outrageously, which soon gave way to a weak laugh as he shook his head hopelessly. The smile in his face was bitter.

"I get it... I did exactly what you expected of me."

When the cigarette was too small and the fire touched Christophe's digital, he didn't react immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the other man, his mouth was a straight line and his brows were slightly furrowed. At last, the Frenchman got up from the stool and threw the cigarette butt on the ground, crushing it under his leather boot to put it out. Then he walked towards the prisoner, who was too injured to move.

"It must be hard..." The blond muttered. "For a man in love to watch so intently how we were together. The man you so deeply desire, smiling to someone else. I don't blame you for despising me." Kenny kept his chin up to face the man who approached him. "But I love him, Christophe. There is nothing... Nothing that I wouldn't do. I would kill for him."

The Frenchman leaned his torso to get his face closer to Kenny's, that lovely face barely deformed by swelling and bruising, staring into those hideously wounded blue eyes.

"And I would die for 'im." He spat against the blond man's face, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt to pull him up a bit. "A million times, McCormick, I would die and come back from every 'ell existing or invented by man, a million times, for as long as 'e needed me. You 'ave no idea, you poor stupid child. Zere is no devil I would not destroy for 'im."

Kenny could barely breathe because of the tightening grip of his collar, coughing harshly. He felt like his ribs were puncturing his lungs, like the muscles of his arms were being torn out of the flesh. He kept holding the raw piece of meat firmly on his hand, feeling the animal's blood dripping from his fingers, as he shuddered in pain and growled roughly, but his shrewd eyes were still shining beneath all the swelling, all the purple bruises. His eyes were so alive.

"And what did you get in return?" The prisoner asked, and the cocky smile never left his lips. First, Christophe's thick eyebrows arched to the question, as if Kenny had actually hit a nerve. And his expression brought a wider smile to Kenny's face, who licked the injured bottom lip and watched the man with his mouth ajar, studying him until the Frenchman reciprocated a weak laugh and let go of his shirt. Kenny's limp body fell on the ground again, and the impact made him bang his head against the wall, scraping the scalp in stone as he moved. Christophe looked down at him, responding only with his facial expression something that was obvious: he was a free man who could walk with his own legs, which had already resisted all kinds of physical damage. While Kenny couldn't even stand up on his own.

The Frenchman began to rub his own fists, feeling how cold his fingers were. He took a step back, but his dark eyes remained fixed on the blond, who fidgeted a little in discomfort and grunted, breathing heavily.

"You ask too many questions." He observed casually, hunting in his pockets, searching for another cigarette. When he found it, he almost brought it to his lips, but ended up just pointing it in Kenny's direction, not showing any initiative of lighting it. "You asked me somezing a few months ago zat I never responded. Let me answer you zat first."

"Oh, this shall be interesting."

Ignoring the prisoner's comment as he took a few steps back, playing with the unlit cigarette between his fingers, Christophe started:

"You asked me one day 'ow I got 'ere. Maybe zis will 'elp you to understand why you are 'ere rotting in a dungeon and I'm not."

"But that's an easy one. You're a good guy. You know, a diamond in the rough, a cad with a golden heart, all that crap." Kenny stopped for a breathless laugh, but ended up coughing again. Breathing was so difficult. He felt like there was a terrible weight on his ribs. "Kyle must have thought you were so admirable... Of course, you don't have my charm, and you're nowhere near as handsome, but people seem to value morals a bit more around here."

Christophe finally went back to sit on the stool, a bit far from the filthy blond who spoke with guile and tried to lift his head from the ground. The Frenchman's eyes were dull and disinterested. He just sat there, propping his feet on the stool, stroking his cigarette with his thumb, as if he had forgotten that Kenny was right there a few feet from him. However, Christophe offered a small smile as he listened to those words, never looking at the prisoner.

"And you know it all, don't you, gosse?" He asked in an amused voice. Kenny's ignorance entertained him. The blond man's eyes narrowed in curiosity, but he didn't reply. Christophe sighed heavily before proceeding. "Five years ago, I left Kupa Keep with mission. I served as a mercenary to ze Crown. I told you once, didn't I? Sellsword, zey called me, alzough I've never been too fond of ze sword mezod. You 'ave to dance with it, I zink it makes men look so fucking stupid. Anyway. I don't zink you, idiot boy, 'as 'ad ze chance to talk to ze 'At King in person, ze man to whom I was serving at ze time. Do you know why zey called 'im zat?"

"I know the legends, what I've been told. People say he always used a puppet to give his macabre orders, a toy that wore a hat. So people started to call him Hat King. There were awful rumors about it."

"Yes, zat's right. Ze guy was a sick bastard. Schizophrenic piece of sheet." Christophe went on, shaking his head over the vivid memory. "I was standing zere in front of ze throne, in ze castle's main 'all, 'earing orders from a fucking ventriloquism doll 'eld by a completely insane man. With zat imbecile doll's voice, 'e screamed zat I'd have to kill ze king elf for zem. And with ze king's voice, 'e told ze puppet: "No, Lord 'At, slaughtering a king is a very severe crime! Bad Lord 'At!" Fucking God." He took a long pause, licking his lips. "Just being in ze same room as zat man made me zink I was losing my mind too. Well, I 'ad no obligation of loyalty to ze court, 'e needed a dirty man to do a dirty job. It 'ad a lot of gold involved. Absurd amounts of gold, I don't know if you can imagine 'ow much. Enough to buy me a whole fleet of ships and return to France as a wealthy man. So I could care less zat ze order came from a fucking doll, I accepted ze job."

"The order was..." Kenny risked speaking, turning his face slightly to the side, gritting his teeth for a moment. "He sent you to kill Kyle?"

Christophe shook his head.

"Non, not Kyle. I came 'ere for Gerald Broflovski." He continued. "But... Somezing went wrong. Very wrong. Long story short, I was caught in ze king's bedroom with a knife in my 'and. It didn't look good for me, you can imagine. And ze only reason I was not 'anged zat night was a moment... It didn't last more zan one or two seconds, it was a single moment when ze guards dragged me out of ze king's bedchamber and ze prince opened 'is room's door because 'e 'eard ze noise. And we exchanged a look. I will never forget, 'e looked like 'e 'ad just gotten out of bed, 'e was barefoot, zat wild red 'air was terribly messy... Zose scared green eyes staring right into me. Right into my soul, if I 'ad one. And 'e said to 'is dad: "You can't kill 'im, 'e is only a boy, not much older zan me. 'E is someone's son, please", 'e screamed. So sweet, zat child was. Kyle never understood ze nature of murder, not even now zat 'e is accustomed to it." He shook his head, threatening to form a smile on his lips. "Gerald Broflovski spared my life. I never knew exactly why. Perhaps it was ze cries of 'is son, or 'e knew zat I wasn't an enemy soldier, just a young man selling 'is services. But naturally, I was thrown into a cell just like zis one. I lived zere for three years."

Kenny didn't dare to say anything when the Frenchman's eyes finally turned to him, as if he had been torn from his own memory. The cigarette had been finally brought to the mouth but remained unlit, as if Christophe had forgotten all about the urge to smoke. There was silence. The blond just gulped.

"'Owever, Kyle never forgot about me. You may remember when I caught ze petit prince bringing you food. Inside, I 'ad to laugh, because Kyle used to do exactly ze same zing for me. Zey are some sneaky little rats, ze Broflovskis, and zey carry zis natural need to take care of vicarious mutts like us. Well. When your fatty king of crap took ze castle and killed Gerald with 'is own 'ands, one of ze first zings zat Kyle did as king was to free me. 'E came up 'ere and told me zat 'e 'ad to fight a war and 'e wanted me by 'is side. Everybody wanted my 'ead on a spike, of course, but 'e made every single one of zem swallow my freedom. 'E understood. 'E knew me."

"That hardly seems fair. You try to kill his father and he defends you, but what I did is unforgivable?"

Christophe grimaced as if the words hurt his ears, then cracked his neck from side to side and finally turned his face to the prisoner, relaxing his body on the stool. The cigarette was now pointing upwards, held by the Frenchman's chapped lips, and both his hands were on his thighs.

"And do you know why?"

"I'm dying to find out." Kenny said in a sarcastic tone that did not fit very well with his extremely exhausted and breathless voice.

"You let 'im fall in love with you by lying to 'im ze whole time."

Kenny cocked his head to the side.

"Oh, I see. And you didn't, you made him fall in love with this sweet and lovely person you truly are."

Christophe's black eyes strayed.

"Kyle never fell in love with me." He said in a resigned voice, and by the sound of it, you couldn't tell if that hurt him inside or not. It was like he was stating a fact as simple as the sky's color. But his eyes closed for a moment, just a moment, and that simple act said so much more than what Christophe would say through words. Clearing his throat as he reached for a match into his pocket, finally lighting the cigarette between his lips as he stood up, the man continued. "Zat's why you're 'ere, rotting on ze ground, and I'm not. It is a price to pay for 'aving what you wanted."

"Well, at least I can say that I had."

"Oh, so can I."

There was a pause. Kenny looked away for a second, blinking slowly, exhausted. God, how his body ached. He had dropped the piece of raw meat, and his whole face was stained with blood, as well as a few locks of his golden hair.

"Eventually..." The blond muttered, losing strength. "He will understand. I never meant to hurt him, I'm not on Cartman's side. I'll make him understand that. I won't give up on him."

Christophe scratched his jaw loudly, thoughtful.

"I wouldn't be so sure. See, Kyle does not zink like a man. 'E zinks like a woman. Ze 'eart is kinder, ze mind is trickier." He almost chuckled. "Ze 'eart is more sensitive, ze mind is more vindictive."

Kenny didn't look at the man for quite some time, while Christophe smoked standing there with no hurry to leave, putting the matchbox back in his pocket. Kenny stared at nothing in particular, now stripped of grins and ironic sentences. There was no trace of a joke in his countenance. It was one of the rare occasions in his life when Kenny McCormick was completely serious.

"Will he kill me?" He asked with a trembling voice, looking up at Christophe.

The question made the man cock an eyebrow and approach, dragging his feet in a lazy step. He blew the smoke and watched the smitten blond man with a certain smile that only shone in his eyes, because his mouth was still a straight line.

"Do you pray, McCormick?"

"Not so much." The prisoner answered with a suspicious smile.

"You better start now." He said in a sharp tone, approaching enough to lean his torso forward and bring his face close to Kenny's. "Pray, you dumb little lam, pray to all ze fucking gods you know, beg for zem to let Kyle kill you. Because death will be so merciful compared to what I will do to you as soon as I get ze chance."

Christophe blew the cigarette smoke against Kenny's face, who closed his eyes and wrinkled his nose, coughing loudly. There was dried blood on his lips, his hair, his hands and his clothes. Puffy blue eyes soon widened to face him with the courage of a lion, as if he was listening to an empty threat, although he was pretty sure it wasn't empty at all. The Frenchman lifted his torso, straightening up, and turned his back to leave the cell, saying in a calmer voice as he withdrew:

"If you want ze truth, 'e was never really yours nor mine. 'E is Stanley's. Always 'as been, always will be."

. . .

Craig Tucker's steed was one of the strongest horses in the kingdom of Kupa Keep. The animal's recoil had even killed a poor old unwary man once. Craig loved that steed. It was a beautiful horse of brown pelage, with huge white spots on its face and forelegs, and its mane was as golden the princess' hair. He rode down the dirt road amid green fields, so wide that you would lose sight of them on the horizon, and the sun shone brightly over his head, as always, bathing Kupa Keep's landings with its rays. The steed's hooves a loud sound as they rode, so loud that the gates guards could hear them coming long before they could even see their silhouettes aloof. The guards recognized the horses and the man who rode one of them, even though he was covered in dirt and had cuts all over his face caused by the branches of which he could not dodge when he rode in the forest. Craig wore a black cloak that flew behind him, lifted by the strong wind they were running against. The Kupa Keep gates opened for the man. A horn echoed through the air. Black birds arose as the horses trotted passed them.

The king, who had already been informed of their arrival as soon as the figures of two horses appeared on the horizon, pushed the huge red doors of the castle's entrance open, pausing for a moment to watch the approaching rider, smiling out of the corner of his lips. The smile disappeared almost immediately when Cartman realized that only one of the horses had a man mounted on. The other, the white horse with black spots, Kevin McCormick's horse, ran alone.

"What the fuck?" The king shouted.

Craig pulled the reins tightly. The other animal was tied to him by a rope, and also slowed its pace as they approached the staircase that led to the castle doors. Cartman ran down the stairs, his long mantle dragged on the ground, his hands clenched into angry fists, a fearful expression dominating his face. Craig couldn't see very well. He almost fell off his horse when the animal stopped completely, holding firmly on the reins to keep his body from unbalancing. His head was fallen forward and his whole body felt dizzy and weak over lack of food. Cartman snapped his fingers for men in armor to help Craig get down, holding him by the arms, while the horse's hooves pounded the ground impatiently.

"Where the fucking hell is my Stick?!" It was the king's first question to the man who removed the cloak's hood and stared at him with a bruised face. Craig's eyes were opaque. Cartman frowned. "Have they killed Kevin?"

The sounds of high heels coming down the stairs, right behind the king, were terribly familiar. The princess lifted the hem of her dress and stared at the two men with her chin up, watching them curiously, following the king's path to where they stood. But Cartman ignored her presence, reaching out a hand to grasp Craig's strong arm, pulling him closer.

"Answer me, you asshole!"

Craig could barely breathe. The blood from the open cuts on his face was already dry, except for a huge scratch on the forehead that went down to one of his eyebrows, that one was still bleeding as if it had been recent, and a red trickle ran down the man's cheek. He regarded his king with a stunned look, shaking his head negatively in response. The princess appeared behind the king, pushing him with considerable force to the side, visibly irritated. Cartman gritted his teeth, glanced at the guards, but didn't react as Marjorine took Craig's injured face in her soft hands, staring at him as if she could see every answer about the world in his eyes. Her long blonde hair was loose and flew a bit with the gentle breeze.

"Where are my brothers?" She asked in a low voice, almost without opening her mouth, in a terrified whisper.

The king took all the necessary measures so that the princess was kept away from his subjects, especially because these things weren't for women to know - not that she was actually a woman, which made it all even more distorted - but somehow, when it involved her family or her interests, Marjorine always ended up discovering Cartman's plans by other means. Someone in his castle, perhaps more than one person, spied for her. Cartman knew it. She hardly ever questioned her king, for she was much more intelligent than that. She knew very well how far the scandals could take her.

The thief's lips quivered as he offered the princess a desolate look, wishing for all that was sacred to him that he didn't have to report anything he had seen to the princess. The heart was still racing fast in his chest, just like it had been on the night he witnessed his friend, his best friend, the closest thing to a brother he had ever had in his life, being knocked down by a servant of the elves, a traitor human who had mutilated him. Kevin's screams hadn't come out of his head since that night, they were still echoing in his ears like ghosts.

"They..." He whispered, shaking his head and closing his eyes, trying to get rid of the screaming in his skull. He turned his face toward the king, who was watching him carefully with a stiff expression. "I saw it all, Your Majesty."

The shock had made Craig forget about his bad manners.

"Tell me, idiot." Cartman said, and the insult was the result of an obvious nervousness that he wanted to hide.

"Kenny went mad. He was completely mad. Kevin was talking to him alone, he thought he was safe. I... I wanted to go down with him, but he thought Kenny would feel less trapped if he went alone. I stayed on a tree, watching." Craig paused to lick his lips, and the princess took her hands away from his face, bringing both palms to cover her mouth as she listened. The thief nodded. "They… Quarreled. I was far away, I couldn't hear much, but..." He hesitated. Cartman and Marjorine exchanged a brief glance, before the king take a firm hand to Craig's shoulder, giving it a squeeze as a form of encouragement.

"Go on."

"Kenny didn't want to come back. He was scared when he saw Kevin. Then… This man came, God, he came out of nowhere. Fast as a tiger, I've never seen anything like it. And he struck Kevin. With a knife, I saw it, he held Kevin's hand on a wooden door, the knife went through his flesh, there was a lot of blood... I should… I should have done something. I should have helped him."

"No." Cartman said firmly. "You did well by coming back here. They would have arrested you too, those fuckers."

"Is he badly injured?" The princess asked in agony, bringing her hands down to her chest.

"I don't know. Yes, from what I saw, but... But Kenny called the guards on him, he fucking called the elves to take Kevin prisoner. The elves listen to him, they… They respect him. It's insane, Cartman. He... He isn't the man we knew."

"Are you calling my brother a traitor, Sir Tucker?"

"I know what I saw, my Lady." He replied bitterly.

For a moment no one said anything. The sound made by birds that flew above their heads echoed through the air, and Craig lifted his chin to see the birds' silhouettes on clear blue sky. His grayish eyes then turned to the king, who now gave them his back to climb the stairs back to the castle in purposeful strides, as if he had some important work to accomplish, something that absolutely couldn't wait. Craig blinked slowly, feeling the dizziness take over him. The princess briefly told the guards to take Craig inside and feed him, before the thief couldn't even stand up on his own anymore. Soon she was stepping back, letting her beautiful dress drag on the dirty floor as she ran after the king.

"Is that what you wanted?" She said as they entered the castle, away from the guards. She knew perfectly well how Cartman felt when he was challenged in front of his men. It was inadmissible. "Now, the enemies have my two brothers held hostage, and what do we have? I let my feelings very clear as to send Kenny on this mission, and unhappy with that alone, you also sent Kevin to be stabbed? What were you thinking?"

The king stopped walking and turned around so quickly that the princess bumped into his huge body, tall and strong as a wall. The king's thick fingers went up to grab the princess' jaw, squeezing it tightly, keeping his hand encased in her lean and elegant neck. The grip was not hard enough to score her skin, but it was uncomfortable enough for her to let escape a low moan. A terrified moan.

"Did you not hear, you annoying whore? Who gave Kevin away was that filthy rat of your other brother. Kevin failed me. Craig failed me. Kenny failed and betrayed me, thinking that he can pee on me like that, like he could possibly deceive me and get away with it. He thinks he's a fucking fairy too. Therefore," He angrily whispered close to her face, between his teeth, spitting while talking. Marjorine's blue eyes widened by the tight pressure of the king's fingers on her face. "He's also my enemy. I should've never trusted such incompetent retards to do something as simple as getting me back what is mine by right."

Cartman casually let go, and the princess' response came as a sharp breath as her chest swelled. The king looked at her with contempt.

"Don't worry about your precious brothers, you ignorant bitch. I'm tired of other people's shit, I'm getting them back myself."

"You..." She whispered in a frightened tone. "What will you do with Kenny? Are you going to kill him?"

Cartman laughed out loud.

"Kill him? No, princess, that is not how I deal with traitors. I want him very much alive. And I will bring back more than those worthless McCormicks you love so much. I'll bring a souvenir."

"Your Majesty. Do you intend to invade the elven kingdom with our army? It's... It's very reckless, you know. We've been losing every battle and we still don't know where Stick is."

"Oh, but it's not the Stick that I'll bring with me." The king said with a terribly satisfied smile. The princess shivered in silence.


	16. Always has, always will

The hand was light, soft, and moved across the surface of the water like some sort of fish, causing a strangely soothing sound. The fingers appeared amid the foam as the hand played around, then dipped again in hot water as if it wanted to hide from something. The feeling was nice, the smell was even nicer. Pip Pirrup was rubbing the king's scalp with his delicate hands, massaging his head, enjoying the feeling of the soft red hair against his fingers. Pip loved to wash the king's hair. The bathroom was large and well illuminated in the morning by the huge window that took almost an entire wall, providing a spectacular view of the forest that seemed endless from up there: it wasn't possible to see where it ended, it stretched as far as the eye could reach in the horizon, thousands of trees of different species forming a mantle that was so green during the summer and so white during the winter. The sun was gentle that morning in particular, heating them with its rays extending through the window.

Kyle sighed tiredly, rubbing his wet neck that was full of foam.

Pip, that boy so slim and friendly who was adored by everyone - especially Kyle – slid his warm hands down to the king's shoulders, timidly feeling them under his palms. The king's damp and soft skin made it so easy for his hands to slip, massaging the tense muscles underneath, feeling them gently with his fingers. Pip had already washed the king's hair and bathed him countless times, while Kyle's tired body relaxed in the porcelain tub, so there was intimacy in the touch, it was no longer that scared restriction when you touch someone so very important. Kyle laughed of Pip's embarrassment at the beginning, the British boy remembered. It had been Kyle himself who took Pip's hands and showed him how to touch his shoulders, arms, neck and chest, often his feet, legs and thighs. Pip rubbed the king's skin with a sponge, massaged it and serving wine during his bath. Almost every time, they talked about banalities. But not that day. That day, they barely talked.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but… Is there something wrong? Am I not doing it properly?"

"Huh?" Kyle muttered distractedly, supporting his elbow on the edge of the tub, with a hand covering his mouth and his head slightly turned to the side, without actually turning around to face the man sitting behind him. As Pip remained silent, getting back to massage the king's soapy hair, Kyle removed the hand from his mouth and asked louder. "What did you say, Pip?"

"Forgive me." He repeated in a small voice. "I should not be nosy."

Without warning, the king sighed and let his body slowly slip in the tub to plunge until the last strand of hair was submerged, and so he remained under water for about six seconds. It was enough for Pip to nervously rub his wet hands on the fabric of his pants, which were cream-colored, and the man had rolled the hem up to his knees, exposing his shins; the light color of his pants allowed the wet spots to tragically show on his thighs, but the blond didn't notice it until the king arose again on the surface, safe and sound. The British hadn't actually believed Kyle intended to drown in his own bathtub, not with all the responsibilities he had. It was a foolish thought, Pip knew, but he couldn't contain the relief when Kyle turned his head to face him, his cheeks flushed by the heat of the water, several drops running down his beautiful face and both eyes looking so empty. The bathroom was so clear that Pip could see very well the subtle freckles on the king's cheeks, which made him look like a boy. Pip deeply feared the melancholy that lived in those green eyes ever since everything had happened. He hated to see Kyle so sad.

Pip couldn't believe it when he was told that the human, brother of the princess, was actually an undercover thief from Kupa Keep. The man who gave him the news was a cook, an older guy whose hair was almost as red as the king's, only the cook had the thickest moustache ever seen. Darryl Weathers was his name. Darryl was an illiterate who knew nothing about manners, that's true, he was cranky and cursed a lot. But Pip admired him immensely for the simple fact that he had never met someone more ethical in his life. For Darryl, right was right and wrong was wrong, no middle ground. "The bastard was thrown in a dungeon, got what he deserved, that little shit", those had been the cook's words about Kenny McCormick. Pip still couldn't believe that such a handsome man, so kind and gentle, a man of such charm and intelligence, could have been capable of something like that. And by the look that the king carried on his face, it was evident that Kyle was also having trouble accepting it.

"Pip, how long we known each other?" Kyle asked, turning his torso to face the boy as he ran his hands through his own hair, wringing out the excess of water.

"Uh. Um... If I'm not mistaken… For over twenty years, I believe, Your Grace."

"Well, then it seems very stupid to me that you think you can't intrude." The king said with a weak smile, turn around to give Pip his back again.

Pip hesitated for a moment, but eventually reached for the soaked sponge to rub the king's back with it, considering it in silence. Kyle insisted no more; he simply rested his arms on the sides of the tub, breathing deeply to relax his muscles under the boy's gentle scrub.

"It's just… You look so sad. That's all." Pip said.

"That must be because I feel sad."

The reply came in the form of a short and restrained moan, and then Pip gulped, staring at the back of the king's head. The neck was long and thin, his skin was white as milk, with a small mole on the left shoulder, and the soaked hair was now a shade of red so dark that came to look brown. He twisted the sponge on the king's shoulders, then cupped his hand to pour a little more water on Kyle's soft skin, rinsing the foam.

"There... There are rumors. They are saying that the prisoner will be executed. Well, not they, just Darryl. He told me." Pip continued kindly. Then, in a louder, almost appealing tone: "Please don't be mad at him!"

"And you wouldn't want to see that happen, right? The prisoner being executed."

"O-oh, uhn. Well. No, Your Grace, I... I understand the crime he has committed is quite terrible, fooling everyone that way, but I would not want to see him dead."

Kyle rubbed his own hands as he listened, staring at the view from the large window. They had the entire Grove in front of them, all the trees and the rivers that cut among them, all the elves working in the forest cutting wood, hunting animals, supervising and watching. From up there, everyone looked like small ants workers.

"Do you believe that he deserves mercy, Pip?"

"I'd never question your decision, Majesty."

"That's not what I asked."

Before the henchman could part his lips to respond, a loud voice interrupted them; someone had entered the room and called for the king. Pip felt relief.

"In here." Kyle shouted, lifting his chin to project his voice.

Within seconds, Stanley pushed cautiously the bathroom door, that was already half open. Pip turned his head to greet him with a warm smile. There was a small table beside the tub, with a tray full of glass bottles and soaps, where Pip rested the soaked sponge and a salmon-colored towel he used to briefly dry his hands before straightening the beret on top of his head. Once the warrior laid eyes on the scene, catching the king's body relaxed in the tub with his arms resting on the edges, one leg resting on his bent knee sticking out of the water, Stan immediately lowered his head and tried to hold back a blush on his face, staring at the wooden floor, turning sideways. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to... I didn't know you were…"

Kyle let out a weak laugh, reaching his arm in a signal for him to get closer, waving his hand.

"Don't be silly, Stanley."

The warrior raised his gaze shyly, taking a few steps forward. Kyle turned around in the bathtub to see Pip's face, which looked so round and flushed, with a slightly scared expression that was constantly there. The young man sitting on the wood stool straightened his back and stared at the king with large dear eyes, looking like he was about to hear a very important order, raising his eyebrows in attention.

"That will be all, Pip. Thank you for your company, now leave us alone."

Rising from the little stool and taking a brief bow, Pip nodded anxiously, holding on his beret so it wouldn't fall off.

"I will be at your disposal, Your Grace. Call me if you need anything else." The boy said with a gentle smile like only a child could give, heading towards Stanley as he adjusted the lapel of the red vest he was wearing, greeting the warrior with his head as he passed by him. "Have a good day, my lord."

"You, too, Pip." Stan replied, returning the smile with the same kindness.

So they were left alone.

As the door closed behind the warrior, Kyle stretched his arm to raise his hand up in the air, moving his fingers with brief elegance, and it was enough for Stanley to understand the unspoken order; he approached the tub just enough to take the king's hand with his own, with the palm facing down, and leaned forward to give it a long kiss, rubbing the tip of his cold nose against the damp skin as he did so. Kyle smiled at him as one who conceives an archangel, like Stan was the most beautiful sight he had ever had, saying cheerfully:

"Well, if it isn't my brave raven."

When Stan straightened up, the light blush still colored his face, although it was much less evident. The warrior let go of the king's wet hand and cleared his throat, somewhat awkwardly, reaching the stool on which Pip was sitting, dragging it to the side of the bathtub so that he could see the king's face when he sat down.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, I didn't know you were in the bath."

"Don't call me that. There's no one here." He replied in a tone of authority, frowning while taking a good look at the other man. Stanley was wearing blue and brown that morning, two colors that made him look even more beautiful in contrast to the lightly tanned skin over long hours of training in the sun, the pitch black hair, the square jawline and symmetrical face. Blue and brown suited him well. The silver details in every garment of the royal guard shone in the sun rays and Stan's blue eyes looked much lighter than usual. Kyle lifted his chin slightly as he studied him, brushing his fingers against his own cheek. "And what the hell would I be doing here, other than taking a bath?"

The comment seemed to make the warrior more uncomfortable than it was supposed to. Maintaining a deadly serious expression, laying his head slightly to the side as he watched Stan - who kept his gaze fixed on the floor -, the king slowly raised one of his palms over the water and slammed it down to splash it on the warrior, chuckling as he saw Stan's reaction. Gradually slipping down in the bathtub, Kyle opened his lips to take some water into his mouth, then sat back up only to spit the water on Stanley like a fountain, laughing like a child at this point, when the warrior covered his face with an arm. Stan couldn't help but laugh, shouting aloud:

"Stop it, what are you...?"

Stan stood up from the stool for a brief moment to reach the king's naked body in a threat of tickling him, emerging his hand into the hot water to find Kyle's tummy, but the king cringed too fast, so the warrior soon retreated with a broad evil smile on his face, sitting back.

Kyle was still laughing, and now he was the one who seemed a little embarrassed, but the expression just fade away with a deep sigh, giving place to a characteristic earnestness.

"So… What brought you here?" The redhead asked.

"Oh." Stan replied as if he had been caught off guard, placing his hands on the knees. Now, one of his hands was completely wet, and his pants and his mantle that surrounded his torso had now wet spots, but he didn't notice them. "Nothing in particular. I thought you might want some company. You..." He looked away for a moment. "You haven't gotten out of your room lately."

For the first time during that bath, Kyle reached out for the glass of wine served by Pip twenty minutes before. He didn't intend to drink it, not that early in the morning, he even told that to the squire when the wine was poured. But since Stan wanted to enter certain matters, the need was greater than his will. He took a long, satisfying sip, feeling the fluid burn in his throat before he even had his breakfast, and the whole time, Stanley's gunner eyes watched him with curiosity. Kyle didn't put the glass back on the table, he kept holding it between his fingers instead, resting his arm on the edge of the tub, staring out the window, but not actually absorbing anything that his eyes were seeing.

"I don't feel well."

A sad smile showed on the warrior's lips, but Kyle didn't see it because he wasn't facing the other man. Stan put an affectionate hand on the king's wet arm, stroking the soft skin beneath his palm. Kyle didn't react to it, but silently thanked all the gods for that hand; the touch was firm but tender. He could feel the calluses Stan always had, by the use of the sword, that rough skin against his own, the warmth of that hand, even the subtle agonized grip it gave, he loved it all because that hand was the most comforting thing Kyle had felt in days.

It was so simple with Stanley. It felt so right. The warrior knew him inside and outside, he knew exactly everything Kyle needed and when he needed it.

And the thought brought a thin layer of tears to the king's eyes, tears that were shed as soon as he blinked, mingling with the other drops of water on his wet face, as if the crying could somehow be concealed: it became much more comfortable showing weakness when he had the feeling that it would be washed away. Kyle finally turned to face Stan with reddish eyes, and the sad smile was still there.

"I always choose the wrong men, don't I? The most inappropriate, the filthiest men I could possibly find. Those are always the ones I end up getting involved with." The king muttered quietly, looking down now, as if those words had caused him some sort of shame.

And to his surprise, out of nowhere, Stanley burst into laughter.

Kyle frowned in an angry expression, turning to look at him, opening one eye more than the other, looking genuinely offended by the honest laughter the warrior gave so unintentionally. He could see in Stan's eyes how he couldn't control himself. Stan removed his hand from the arm, prompting Kyle to take another sip of the sweet wine. As soon as the liquid was swallowed, the king asked:

"Oh, I'm sorry, is my misfortune amusing to you?"

"No, no." He said with a restrained smile, rubbing his neck, still chuckling. "I'm sorry, I really am. It's just… I remembered Standish."

Standish was a man with whom Kyle got involved in the most inappropriate way possible, inside the castle's barn, on a pile of hay, when the prince was fifteen going on sixteen. He had about the same age as the redhead's father. Kyle would always think of him as one of the most handsome men who had ever stepped on earth: he had long wavy light brown hair, a protruding thick beard, black eyes that resembled a wild animal's, arms larger than Kyle's legs at that time; his chest and his back were so wide and strong and stiff that would resist any force of nature, and he always wore shirts with the top buttons open, exposing his hair on his chest. He worked on the castle, taking care of the stables. He wasn't an educated man, he wasn't even a smart one, but he knew how to use his calloused hands better than anyone. He was good with his sword too, Kyle remembered. Standish was the kind of man who nobody would dare to challenge.

They were caught in the barn one afternoon, by a redheaded girl who assisted in the mares' deliveries. When Gerald learned their little secret, Standish almost lost his hands and Kyle was almost deserted. "Almost" being the key word. If Sheila Broflovski was still alive at the time, the consequences would have been very likely these. But nothing terrible came from the experience. As he remembered his father's face, which seemed more confused than angry, Kyle laughed out loud as well. And Stan followed him again, because Gerald's reaction had been priceless. He stuttered so much that he didn't know where to start his scolding. He was so confused, he kept screaming "But how?! Where did he put it? Jesus Christ!" Stan had been there to see it because Kyle was afraid to get back to the castle and face his father alone.

"Heavens. What ever happened to him?" Stan asked with a sigh when he managed to stop laughing.

"I don't know for sure. My father sent him away, remember? But I heard rumors that he was killed in a bar fight with a broken bottle. It's not surprising at all, he was a drunken troublemaker."

Kyle put his glass on the table, while Stan raised his eyebrows in surprise at the calmness of his reply. The king's fingers were already wrinkled by the water.

"There's your taste in men, Mr. Broflovski." The warrior said with a smile playing in the corner of his lips, reaching for the glass that had just been left on the table, grabbing it for a moment to lift it as if he was proposing a toast, then put it the back where it was.

Even when Kyle smiled, Stan could still see the superficiality of any feeling transpired in his face, because behind any expression that the king offered, there was only emptiness. Something inside him had broken, and Stanley wanted desperately to know how to fix it. Slowly, the smile faded from the king's lips, who turned to face the beautiful view from the window, and Stan was tempted to turn his head and look at it too. The silence between them was always comfortable.

"You can see the Lady Bear River from up here." Stan commented casually, resting one hand on the edge of the tub while turning his whole body to see the view. There was enchantment in his voice, the kind that never failed to mesmerize the king. "I passed by it on my way here."

The river was narrow and shallow; however, it had the larger extension of all the rivers on the Grove. It cut through the entire kingdom, providing water for its residents, since it was clean, crystal clear, so transparent that you could still see its rocky bottom. Now, it was frozen. But during the summer, all the children of the kingdom went there to play and swim, diving naked, trying to catch fishes with their hands.

"It's so beautiful." The king said with a sigh.

The warrior took a while to turn back and face the king, holding his breath without even realizing it, as his eyes analyzed the long and exposed neck, the naked chest, the rosy nipples, lightly ruffled by the cold. It was no more than a second that Stan allowed himself to wander away, but promptly turned back to Kyle's face, and offered a sincere smile, nodding his head before turning back to the window.

"I was remembering, when I passed by the river... When we were kids and we played on the bridge, you remember? First, we only had sticks to play with. We pretended they were swords."

Kyle laid his head slightly to the side, smiling sweetly while the memories invaded his mind.

"Of course I remember. Then your father carved those little wooden swords for us, so we didn't have to use sticks anymore. They were awesome."

Randy Marsh was a man that Kyle would remember his whole life with nothing but love, the purest and most genuine kind of love that one can feel for another. He had been a mustachioed drunkard who spoke too loudly and was extremely inconvenient, but as a child, Kyle didn't realize the stupidity of Randy's attitudes, not really. Or it didn't bother him, at least, because the man had such a huge heart that didn't fit in his chest, and took care of all of Stan's friends as if they were his own children. He wasn't very responsible, that's true, but they always fared well. Randy was a blacksmith, and Stan's mother, Sharon, was a seamstress. They fought a lot, but it was clear for anyone to see: they were crazy about each other. Stan's older sister, Shelly, was an aggressive and ugly girl who disturbed them much during childhood. For some reason, she liked to throw stones at birds. It was her favorite activity. While chasing a fantail, at the age of thirteen, Shelly slipped on a smooth stone, hit her head on the rock and fell into the river. Her body was found nearly a week after the accident. The death of the firstborn has made the marriage fall apart altogether, until Sharon couldn't bear the weight of her own life any longer. She hanged herself inside the room she still shared with Randy, although he didn't sleep in there anymore. Stan and Kyle were the ones who found her body together, while Randy was working. They were ten. There was no note left, she was just… Gone. The only thing that kept Randy Marsh alive was Stanley. But it was quite visible in the man's eyes that he had given up on everything; he sank into his own drinking for years, until it finally led him away to the arms of the only woman he had ever loved. In a matter of four years, Stanley lost his entire family.

Kyle had been there for every lost family member, making sure that he would survive.

Sighing profoundly, Stan continued:

"I remember perfectly of the day we were playing with Pip, Jimmy and Michael, all of us wearing pieces of linen stolen from our mothers clothesline tied around the neck as if they were warriors' capes, swinging those silly wooden swords, using colanders or pots on our heads... Michael was the dragon, as always." He gave a short chuckle, shaking his head as if he could see the image happening down there, next to the river he could see through the window. "He was roaring and running towards you, using both hands to pretend that they were the dragon's two other heads, shouting that he was going to eat the prince. And you fell back, I remember, you scraped your elbow and looked at him with huge scared eyes... And I hit him with my little sword so hard on the back that Michael fell with his face on the ground and swallowed some dirt. And when I helped you up... That's when I knew."

Kyle listened to the story with his head resting on his hand and his lips slightly parted, as if he had never heard that story before - even though he had been there to witness it and remembered every detail with the same vividness as Stan did, but hearing this story from his perspective, with a voice that delivered the importance of that moment for him, left the king simply fascinated.

"What did you know?"

Stan finally turned to look at him, and this time he was smiling with his eyes.

"I knew I would be your warrior someday." He said in a voice so low that it was almost a whisper. Then, turning his body to Kyle's direction and pushing the stool forward, approaching the bathtub, he reached out a hand to hold the king's, feeling his wrinkled fingers, caressing them for a moment, and then continued. "From that moment on, I knew I would live to serve you. All I wanted was to grow up soon so I could swear to you my sword and my life. I wanted so badly to fight for you."

"And look at you now." The king whispered back, squeezing his fingers around Stan's hand, leading the other one to touch the warrior's dry face with the back of his fingers, stroking the marked skin.

But Stan's eyes fled from his, lowering his gaze to stare at anything that wasn't the face so close to his own. And Kyle frowned, not understanding the hesitation during the first few seconds, feeling the tight grip of Stan's hand grow tenser and he gnashed his teeth in precipitation, wincing. Kyle's hand covered his cheek, feeling the contrast between the warm palm and the cold skin, and then gulped, unsure of what to do next. The absence of Stan's gaze was something with which he absolutely wasn't used to.

Decidedly, the king dropped his hand and stood up, placing his feet in the bathtub with water up to his knees, and the rest of the naked body dripping slowly. Stan stood motionless for a couple of seconds, lifting his head to look at him. The shape was perfect, at least through Stan's eyes. Because through Stan's eyes, there could be nothing more perfect than that figure right in front of him. The legs were shut together, and the water revealed a thin layer of hair that covered them below the knees, but almost disappeared in the thighs, those wonderful thighs that were much more voluptuous than anyone would imagine if they saw the king wearing clothes. He had very few hairs on his body, even around the rosy and flaccid cock that Stan could see right in front of him. The belly was completely smooth and hairless, so pale and sensitive, and his waist was thinner than most men. The teased nipples still provoked Stan more than anything he had ever seen before; now a few drops threatened to fall from the king's rosy nipples and all the warrior wanted was to feel those drops on his tongue. The wet skin glistened in the sunshine, as well as the hair, even soggy, dripping incessantly on his shoulders. And the face... The king's face looked scared.

Stan separated his lips, but he couldn't bring himself to say a word. Then he got up. And he felt better now that he didn't have to face Kyle from below; he was significantly taller, even for an elf, because he had the body of a warrior. Stan took a deep breath and shook his head so subtly that it was almost imperceptible, as he closed his eyes. But Kyle's hands prevented him from keeping them closed for long. The king raised his hands to cup his face, touching him with that unbearable gentleness, bringing him closer.

"Standish was my first man, but..." The hint of a smile appeared in the king's pinkish lips, which were never completely closed. "You were my first love."

Instinctively, the warrior's hands were involving his neck, squeezing its sides with some force, digging the tips his fingers in Kyle's jaw, holding his chin up. Their lips were dangerously close. With eyes shut, Stan muttered between his teeth:

"And you will be my last."

The eye contact between the two men seemed to last more than a century; however, it took only a few seconds, brief and fleeting enough that the warrior's legs trembled under his weight. A muffled growl was emitted from the back of Stanley's throat, as his hands acted faster than his brain had capacity to process; he undid the black belt made of animal hide, unfolded the mantle that enveloped his torso, tearing the buttons of his vest before taking it off quickly, and the pieces fell to the ground one by one, exposing the strong chest he hid beneath the cloak. Soon, his hands returned to the king's neck, who watched him the whole time with deep curiosity in his eyes, with his green iris brightening in glow, a glow that could be lust, but it could also be something entirely different. Stan had no time to find out, he was quickly pulling him closer to collide their lips together. His eyes then shut closed. There was only a short moan that escaped from the king's lips when he felt the invasion of Stan's tongue searching for his, but Kyle's body responded immediately, before he could think about it, and soon the king's arms hugged the other man's naked torso, pressing his wet skin against the warrior's, which would soon be wet as well. The kiss was almost painful, too tight, with one of Stan's hand rising through the soggy red hair, holding his head firmly in place while dictating a rhythm to the movement of their lips and tongues; a familiar motion, as if they already knew that kiss by heart.

With no explanation, no warning, no excuse, Stan's arm wrapped around Kyle's hip and pressed right below the naked ass, feeling the soft flesh while he pulled him up, which turned out to be incredibly easy. And when the king's body was lifted in his arms, the kiss was interrupted, the pairs of eyes met again, smiling at each other. Kyle now had to look down to see him. He had both arms resting on Stan's shoulders and used his free hands to caress the man's cheeks, smoothing the skin gently with his thumbs. His pupils were dilated in desire, as if it were the first time he realized how beautiful Stanley was. The smile was almost natural, almost unconscious, because looking at Stanley made him feel an inexplicable joy at that moment. The king wanted to say something like "Take me, make me yours, take him off me." Because his greatest torture in those recent days had been feeling as if Kenny's touch was still on his skin, and Kenny's smell was still on the sheets, and Kenny's presence was still inside him. And Kyle wanted so desperately not to feel it anymore. The firm touch of Stan's hands on his thighs, the force with which the warrior held his body against his own, the way he looked at him, it was like a drug. A relief. A break from his own madness. And Kyle brushed away the strands of black hair that fell over Stan's eyes before lowering his face to kiss him slower, more tenderly than the first time, delighting in the taste of a mouth that wasn't Kenny's.

Kyle loved Stanley. There wasn't cell on his body that dared to doubt that. He loved him even more when Stan carried him to bed in his strong arms, arms so magnificent to look at and to feel. He didn't stop kissing his lips for even a second, even as he laid Kyle on the mattress and stood kneeled between his legs, with his breaths gradually accelerating while a tongue slowly slid against the other, teeth brushed on the bottom lip, saliva mingled and they seemed to become one. It was Kyle who finished undressing him, pulling his pants down along with the underwear, scraping the sides of Stan's thighs as he did so, then laid his head back, exposing his neck which the warrior devoured with lust, sucking the skin with his eyes half-open, inhaling his scent like an addict, lightly biting the curve between the neck and the shoulder as he got rid of his shoes using only his feet.

Stan took him as one should, as Kyle belonged to him. A rough hand was placed on the top of the king's head and pressed his wet hair, and Kyle's chin was still lifted, his parted lips gasped for air as if he had forgotten how to breathe. Stan bit that smooth chin, with the region around his mouth moist by their mixed saliva, and soon their mouths met with more thirst than before. Stan was well settled between his legs, with their chests pressed against each other, as he brushed the rigid cock against Kyle's groin very slowly, in a deliberate teasing, sliding it through the damp skin of Kyle's quivering thigh, then Stan cracked a smirk amid the kiss, feeling the impulsiveness of the hips of the man beneath him. Kyle had never learned how to control himself. Stan knew that very well; he knew every single detail about him. That was mainly the reason why their bodies fit together like they had been made for each other. Kyle finally raised his thighs and wrapped them around Stan's waist, forcing Stan's hips against his own, rubbing his hard cock on the warrior in an anxious friction, moaning in agony and relief against the man's lips.

Kyle's hands roamed over Stan's back, which were so large and firm, now covered by a thin layer of sweat. He felt it and touched it with desire, as if feeling those back on his palms were enough to boot uncontrollable moans out of Kyle's mouth. Stan lifted his torso a little, breaking the kiss, leaning on one elbow in bed, stroking the king's hair entries back. Then his thick fingers went down to skim over Kyle's parted lips, those pouty and rosy delicious lips, wet by saliva, swollen from kissing. It was one of the most beautiful sights that the warrior had ever had. The smile that appeared was subtle, almost implicit, when he slid his fingers between Kyle's lips with ease, and the king sucked them while keeping his eyes fixed on Stanley's. The tongue played around the fingers, feeling them slowly, and Stan couldn't resist the urge to lean in to kiss him hungrily, brushing his wet fingers on Kyle's cheek as he cupped his face with a firm hand.

He spent a considerable amount of time slathering his hard cock with the oil that the king had kept in a glass inside his drawer, a viscous substance that smelled very nice. Stan shuddered as he spread it around, supporting his body with one arm and sliding the other hand down the length of his dick, unhurriedly stroking with his fingers slipping up and down, tightening the grip around the head of his cock. Kyle watched it with a heavy breath in precipitation, firmly grabbing the sheet with both hands, keeping his mouth open the whole time. When Stan leaned forward to press his chest against Kyle's, covering the king's body with his own, resting his face on the side of the other man's head and breathing heavily in his ear, he still spent a lot of time simply skimming his cock between Kyle's ass cheeks. The oil made it so easy to slip and it felt delicious, but not quite as delicious as the sharp sensation that followed, when the head of Stan's hard cock pressed against his entrance, which twitched involuntarily, begging for him to penetrate. Kyle screamed, arching his back as he felt the invasion of that rigid member which forced its entirety all at once, in an excruciatingly slow motion. The pressure made the king squirm under the weight of the warrior's body, but he could feel his heart beating along with Stanley's in the same rhythm, as the skin damp with sweat slid so hot against his own, and those strong hands held him in firmly, one in Kyle's hip and the other on the side of his neck, pressing the flesh and marking the skin, keeping him in place until Stan was completely inside.

And thus, he remained motionless, throbbing painfully inside him, feeling the muscles around his cock twitching, tightening him so much, as if Kyle's body wanted to expel him and suck him in at the same time. Stan couldn't contain the muffled groan against the king's ear, shaking with the hot and tight sensation, listening to Kyle's soft murmur saying things that he didn't understand and didn't want to understand, because he couldn't even think straight. It felt so good that he couldn't remember how to formulate complete sentences. The hip moved in a bearish impulse, pulling his cock out almost completely, pausing for just a second before forcing it all in again, this time with more force and more haste, repeating the movement several times. He found the strength to lift his neck so that he could see the king's face; closed eyes and parted lips, the expression of ecstasy that appeared there, and the sight made Stan bite his lower lip. Kyle pressed Stan's torso between his legs, which were much stronger than they seemed, then raised hips in a continuous and subtle movement as if he could beg for more with his body; harder, faster, deeper, for the love of god. Maybe that's what Kyle was saying, he couldn't tell. But he could feel what the redhead's hands were trying to say, because his fingers were buried so deep in the flesh of Stan's back, marking the skin with scratches that would remain there for days. Kyle shook his head madly as he felt the entire cock slide inside, feeling the testicles rubbing against his buttocks, and pressed hard, as deep as possible, in a single, quick motion, forcing Kyle's body against the mattress, making him scream. Stan smiled. They were fast to dictate a single perfectly fitted rhythm, just like they knew they would be, because they spoke the same language, they completed each other's sentences, read each other's thoughts, one felt what the other felt.

Stan slowly lowered his face, closing his eyes as he pressed his lips against Kyle's, first brushing their parted lips together, then fitting them, and only then sliding his tongue inside the other man's mouth. The king's hands slid up his back, until the fingers were tangled on Stan's black hair, holding him tightly, moaning into his mouth as he received the man inside him again and again, becoming his.

And the whole time, Stan Marsh was crushed by the realization that it was what it was, and nothing else.

. . .

The forest wasn't known as Snake Hollow just for any reason, Eric figured. Ironically, that wasn't an area where snakes actually lived, or any other animals for that matter. It was a dry forest full of dead trees and arid soil; the ground was covered with dry fallen branches, twigs and leaves that once lived on those thin and crooked trees. The horse tried to dodge, but ended up crushed many branches with this hard hulls and produced a terrible noise in the quiet night. There was no moon visible in the sky, it was covered behind dark and ugly clouds, hindering even more the vision of the man who rode. But it was a task that needed to be performed at night. Hercules was a completely black horse, the strongest and proudest steed, known for having an awful temper, very difficult to tame. Almost every man who ever tried to ride him just ended up on the floor being trampled over. The steed wasn't frightened by anything. It was the perfect horse for Eric Cartman, the only man who rode Hercules day and night without ever having been dropped. Not even once.

Cartman reined the animal when he began to hear a song. He had arrived. Although the king was sure that Hercules wasn't a fagot horse that would be scared like all the others, he would rather not take the chance of bringing him along into the clearing. Animals had a high level sensitivity to the supernatural, and Cartman was unwilling to have his horse running desperately through the woods in case something went wrong. He got down from the saddle and pulled Hercules impatiently by his rein.

"Hurry up, you stupid beast. C'mon." He muttered when the animal stood still, pulling him tightly until Hercules finally moved, following Cartman to a large tree. The king tied him firmly to it with a double knot. "Stay here, asshole."

Taking out his handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead, even with the cold air of the night getting through his clothes and causing chills, Cartman began to walk toward the music: it was a melodious and acute female voice, horribly pleasing to the ears, and the king knew how dangerous it was. The glow emitted from the clearing was visible among the trees, a blue beam of light that made his way easier, since now he could actually see where he was going. The branches cracking on the ground announced the arrival of an outsider, constantly being broken under Cartman's heavy feet with the same enthusiasm with which they had been crushed by his steed just a few moments ago, but the voice didn't stop singing, even at the sight of the man emerging between the trees.

What Cartman immediately saw was a blonde woman with wild curly hair, long like it had never been cut in her life. She was completely naked, sitting on a rock with legs bent, covering what laid between them, but her breasts were fully on display; beautifully large and round breasts, a small waist and wide hips, long neck, face as delicate as a painting. She emanated a bluish glow that had illuminated Cartman's path, but now the brightness was almost unpleasant to the eyes, since it was too intense from up close. He could hear very well the lyrics sung by the woman; it was about a sailor swallowed by a giant squid. "Poor, poor, poor sailor, may the darkness be kind." A siren song, Cartman imagined. He hated mermaids almost as much as he hated nymphs.

Bebe was a nymph he was already familiar with.

And it wasn't with her that he intended to speak.

The creature that had brought him to travel all that way and cross the Snake Hollow was sitting on the floor with his back supported by the high stone where the nymph was sitting on. They were waiting for the arrival of the king of Kupa Keep, of course; the damned creature could see this kind of thing way before they actually happened. The man had hair as black as the night itself, and eyes as red as blood. He also wore only black, but it looked like navy blue when illuminated by the nymph's glow, and his vestures seemed to be made of crow feathers, thousands of them. He was barefoot. He didn't responded or acknowledged Eric's presence, despite having made immediate eye contact as soon as the man emerged from the trees. Damien's hand danced in the air to the music Bebe sang, and soon the red eyes shut closed, as if this way he could better feel the song going into his ears. Cartman sighed impatiently, rolling his eyes in the most discreet way he could.

In less than ten seconds, Damien's hand stopped dancing, and the index finger was pointed upward, toward the nymph. The nails of his fingers were frighteningly long.

"Shut up, bitch." The creature said, and Bebe obeyed promptly.

The stone was large enough that the nymph could lay on it, and so she did; she laid with her stomach down, kneading her large breasts against the cold stone surface, resting her elbows and holding her face in her hands, ready to watch the scene with certain amusement. She bent her knees to lift the bottom part of her legs, her feet swinging like a ballerina's in the air, taking no offense by the way that Damien had interrupted her.

The devilish grin on Damien's face did not intimidate Cartman whatsoever. Placing both hands on the floor and crawling like a cat, showing the inhumanly white teeth in a mad smile, the creature approached the human king, then stood on his feet with a dexterity and speed almost imperceptible to the naked eye. The hand that danced in the air was now engaged in a kind of reverence welcome.

"Eric Cartman. What brings the rat's king to our humble home?"

"Don't fuck around, Damien. I need your help."


	17. Garden of ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some gore.

It was supposed to be a beautiful day.

After a whole night of constant snow, the sun rose on the horizon and shone intensely, gracing the kingdom with its heat, and the ugly clouds moved away to make room for a lovely sky that mixed orange and pink. The dawn was gorgeous. The ground was covered by a thick layer of pure white snow, making it impossible to see the green grass underneath, but winter, even when rigorous, was stunningly breathtaking. The forest animals had started to wake up and left their burrows in search for food. The residents of the kingdom were still deeply asleep, since the sun hadn't yet risen completely in the east; a few workers were already up and making their coffee, yawning while looking out their kitchens' windows, lazily scratching some part of their bodies. But the streets remained silent, filled only by the singing of winter birds. A baker smiled when he realized that it wasn't snowing anymore, optimistic for the good weather. A mother who nursed her baby in a rocking chair, stroking the little elf's face, also smiled, glad that she would be able to dry her clothes in the sun that morning.

Beyond the villages, into the thickness of the forest, the elven castle also remained in silence. The courtyard was completely white; the water of the huge fountain in the center was frozen and sparkled like a piece of crystal, wonderful to look at. Benches, tables, shrubs and flowers, ceramic vases, sculptures, everything was covered in a soft snow. The forgotten teapot from the previous afternoon was still there, on one of the stone tables. A blue bird landed on a bench, shaking its plump body and peeping curiously as it looked around. Amid all the white, overly-stood the bright red color mixed with snow, near the staircase which led to the castle; now the red had stopped spreading and the tinge seemed darker. There was a constant trickle of blood dripping repeatedly on the last step of the stairs, for god knows how long, because the dead body was lying on his stomach, his face pressed against the cold hard surface of the step, his lifeless open eyes staring at nothing. The lips were still parted against the cement, with a vivid red blood staining his teeth, his tongue and the whole region around his mouth. It was the blood spat on his last breaths, while the man still struggled to get up. But he would never get up again.

The double doors of the castle were wide open, and the aggressive cold invaded the lobby, blowing a sharp wind inside. But there was not a soul there to feel it. The hall's floor was made of clear timber, now covered with a slimy puddle of the mutilated guards' blood; those brave men had never come to understand how they had died because it all was too fast and quiet; their throats were cut before they could realize what had happened. They didn't agonize for long. If you walked through the silent corridors in the maze leading to the staircase, then to a long hallway, then to the king's room, an external access to the castle, there was no stain or body on the floor. Everything was clean and untouched. The spiral staircase led to a long corridor with an extremely canary yellow carpet, and the bloodstains on the carpet weren't exactly red, but an intense burgundy, following in several splashes left by someone who wasn't there anymore. The largest spot, which had been the result of a huge puddle that ran across the floor and reached the carpet, was the blood of the man who slid his filthy bloody hand through the wall, staining the dark green wallpaper, and his dirty nails scratched the surface as he tried to hold on to something, but there was nothing. He was on his knees, trying desperately to lift his body that now felt much heavier than it actually was, but the man faltered in a violent cough, falling forward with his face against the wood floor, trembling, squeezing his eyes tightly, seeing only blurry images.

A few feet behind him, down the hall, the door of the king's bedchamber was still open. There was an impact mark on the center of the wood, with scratch remains just above, and the handle was broken. Inside the room, right next to the bed, there was a man lying on his back, in a pool of his own blood, staring at the ceiling with huge eyes wide with terror, as the last thing he had seen in life was the very face of the devil, but those eyes no longer had any real emotion, for the man's heart wasn't beating anymore. His arms were thrown over his head, the throat was open, torn by the blade of a sword that had crossed his neck and reached his nape, when he was already lying on the ground. Ahead, right near the window, there was another man. His eye had been destroyed and pulled out with the tip of a knife, and his skull had been penetrated by another one, thicker and larger; the blade had been stuck so deep that it was still attached to the skull of that man fallen aside, smearing his brown hair with his own blood and a dark viscous substance. The door to the balcony was also open, and the wind made the curtain and bedding flow. There was broken glass and poured wine on the floor, mingling with the blood in a dark red puddle. A shoe had been left behind. The bed was overturned, there were books scattered on the floor, a tray facing down and nuts everywhere.

And from the king's bedroom window, you could see the Mother Tower, the tower of the prisoners. Inside, up the long staircase to the top floor, there were two cells that shouldn't be empty, but were. And among the bodies of guards stretched down the hall, the walls stained of blood dripping slowly, helmets and skulls scattered on the ground and destroyed, there was a man who was still breathing. The gasps were short and desperate, eyes overseeing everything that was around, but he couldn't lift his neck to look at what had become of his life-long friends. He could feel his guts exposed and throbbing, the large intestine visible to the eyes, the terrible smell of shit and blood and burnt flesh. The man's sight was getting darker, and he knew he was dying. He trembled as a calf, and he wanted more than anything in this world not to be afraid when his time came; he wanted to die as a brave man.

That's how the castle arose that morning. But none knew it yet.

. . .

At seven p.m. of the previous day, Stan sighed deeply and began to move under the covers, smiling with eyes closed by the delicious sensation of the body next to his, wrapped in his arms protectively. Kyle's face was so close that their lips still brushed, their noses touched, and Stan could feel his smile in return. He opened his eyes to find the pair of green immensities staring back, but it would be hard to tell those eyes were green in that darkness. Stan didn't need light: he already knew by heart every stain, every nuance of Kyle's iris. He licked his lips, spending a moment to look at the face in front of him with a serious expression, while his hands caressed the king's soft back. It was so warm under the covers.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure." Kyle replied in a sleepy voice, furrowing his eyebrows a little in suspicion.

"Why wasn't it us?" The warrior whispered hoarsely, his eyes narrowing while he asked, as if that had been the most complex question ever made. He took some time to continue, feeling that those words had been enough, but Kyle just stared back, eyes shining in curiosity. Their bodies were still tangled to each other, the king embracing his torso with the same need, mingling his legs between the warrior's. Stan offered a short and hesitant sigh, running his tongue over the upper lip again, pulling a few inches away from Kyle's face only to see it better. "What you share with him, this thing you have, why wasn't it with me? How come we never had that?"

Kyle looked down, and Stan knew that meant understanding.

Understanding that Stan could see right through him, and there could be no illusion or deception of any kind between the two of them, because that would be offensive to everything they had shared in a lifetime. And Stan had no idea how to say or express it, but he wanted more than anything for Kyle to know that no one was being fooled there, the warrior was well aware of what they were: friends. Not in the banal sense that means anything less than the lover category, because there was nothing minimal about what they shared. On the contrary, it was totally unconditional, to the point where they could experience each other's bodies without jeopardizing anyone's feelings. They understood each other like no one else in the world could, all the flaws and all the qualities, the beautiful side and the ugly side, the most hidden and intimate details. And Kyle smiled at him, somewhat melancholy, and brought a hand up to Stan's face, stroking his cheek with a gentle palm.

"We never had that because when you share something so carnal, so instinctive and passionate with someone, and then something goes wrong… The relationship is deformed. What I had with him... What I feel for him is what it is because it couldn't be anything else. It couldn't be friendship. If I had something so intense with you, I could never bear to lose you, Stan." The king muttered quietly. "I need you."

The warrior spent a few moments motionless, and Kyle bit his lip in nervousness because he couldn't properly see the expression on the other man's face. Soon he approached again, and Kyle's heart shuddered in relief with the long, wet kiss that the warrior planted on his forehead, holding him tightly in his arms, with both eyes closed. As he pulled away, Stan brushed his nose against the wavy auburn hair, stroking the strands at length, feeling Kyle so close without saying anything.

"You will never lose me." He finally whispered.

. . .

At ten p.m., two women were sitting on the same couch.

"Thank you so much for coming." Henrietta said as she served a hot cup of steaming tea, pouring liquid from a floral china pot that she only used when she had guests over. It had been a gift from her mother, and Henrietta hadn't actually been surprised when she saw the delicate tea set, as every gift from her mother ended up forgotten in the closet collecting dust for months. Wendy held a saucer which had the small cup on, that was being served, looking at the woman with curious eyes. "I really need to talk."

Wendy was surprised by the last-minute invitation. Although the two women cultivated a relatively intimate friendship, Wendy knew Henrietta's limitations very well; invitations to her house rarely came, and when they did, there was always some alternative motive behind. Henrietta wasn't exactly a sociable person, and she absolutely wasn't the kind who appreciates the beauty of tea with biscuits, so the situation began to make Wendy somewhat distressed. Wendy was her only girlfriend, mostly because the simplicity of men seemed much easier to handle, and Henrietta's interests usually had nothing to do with other women's. Through her eyes, they were all superficial and stupid. Even with Wendy, it was an unlikely and circumstantial friendship. But there were times when a female opinion was needed, and so she was grateful for Wendy's unconditional faithfulness. She blindly trusted her.

The two ladies were in the living room of the house where Henrietta had lived for three years with Michael, her husband. She didn't use to refer to him as her "husband" because the social label didn't fit her well, and Michael agreed completely, preferring to cultivate the freedom of unnamed love. But in practice, they did everything that husband and wife do. The wallpaper in the living room was dark purple damask with reddish wood boards embossed; the sofa on which they sat was a dark wine color, decorated with black cushions, much like the rest of the environment. The chandelier above their heads was also black, large and overstated, as the curtains and the carpet. Huge dark wood bookcases surrounded one of the walls, with thousands of tomes that Henrietta treated as her babies; no one was allowed to touch her books, not even Michael. There were candlesticks with lit candles on the coffee table, as well as a tray with the teapot, cups and a bowl of crackers.

"What happened?" Wendy asked in concern.

"I think I'm pregnant." She replied bluntly, running her fingers through the silver necklace she wore, brushing her long fingernails on the large purple stone pendant. Her hand was covered with a fingerless lace glove.

Wendy's lips parted subtly before she unconsciously ran her tongue over them, frowning for a second, as if she hadn't heard right. But soon the realization made her put her cup down, back on the saucer that rested on the tray, bringing her hand to Henrietta's knee with a broad smile shining on her face.

"Henrietta, that's wonderful!"

"Oh, is it?"

Wendy's smile didn't disappear completely, but lost some brightness as she slipped closer to the other woman, her face suffused with clear confusion. Henrietta, on the other hand, still had that blank expression, holding her cup filled with black coffee resting on her thigh, keeping the other hand over her breasts.

"Why would you say that? Aren't you happy?" Wendy asked, narrowing her eyes.

She shook her head, finally looking away.

"I don't know. Michael and I never talked about it. He has no idea."

"You didn't tell him? Well, where is he?"

"In the castle-guard. Three times a week, he works overnight. He won't return until dawn." She said, waving her hand nonchalantly, taking a long sip of coffee that was already cold.

Wendy nodded and turned to offer a sincere smile, giving two pats on Henrietta's knee.

"Don't worry about it. I'm sure he won't be able to contain himself of joy. It's one of the most beautiful things that can happen to someone, Henrietta. It's new life. A little part of you and a little part of him, how could he not want that? I know you're a little scared now, but believe me. It will be wonderful."

. . .

At three a.m., the silence in Kenny's cell was almost painful. The blond sat on the suspended board which served as a bed, with one leg bent and the foot flat on the board, his pants torn exposing his skinned knee covered by a crust of dried blood. His filthy clothes caused a terrible sensation due to the poor texture touching his skin; the sleeves were folded up to his elbows, his bare feet were so filthy that you could barely see the pale skin beneath the dirt, the beard of a dark blond shade already covered his jaw. Kenny didn't sleep anymore. He just stared at the bars like a living dead, counting them repeatedly - twenty eight bars, the cell had - with his head against the wall, his eyes narrowed and his mouth in a straight line with lips slightly wrinkled. The thick eyebrows, that didn't look so thick because their color was so light, were somewhat furrowed in concentration. One hand rested on the prisoner's injured knee. The swelling on his face had subsided, but the bruises were still evident, perhaps even worse than they had been on the first day. And he counted: nine bars, ten bars, eleven bars...

He lost count when he heard a bang on the other side of the wall, as if something large had been overthrown. Kenny turned his face towards the door, outlining the confusion in his eyes, muttering under his breath:

"What the fuck...?"

Soon after, an agonizing and continuous scream erupted in the prisoner's ears, making him shrink over the intensity of the sound, and the cry of despair became increasingly louder. Grunts could also be heard, shrill and loud grunts that soon disappeared in the air, and ten, thirty, fifty seconds went by, but the scream never stopped; a minute, three minutes, sounds of spears being thrown to the ground and swords tearing human flesh, even a low chuckle of satisfaction, bodies and heavy objects falling down, everything happening like a dance that Kenny couldn't see. And the screaming never ever stopped.

His heart was already beating so fast that he could feel it pulsing in his ears. Kenny put his feet on the ground, raising the hand from his knee to grab the chain that suspended the bed, squeezing it nervously between his fingers, biting his lower lip in precipitation. He considered getting up, but was intimidated by a strong orange light coming through the cracks in the doorway to his cell. Other cries joined in a chorus, but they were soon silenced or reduced to small murmurs that Kenny couldn't understand. The chaos outside seemed to last an eternity, until a shadow showed up in front of Kenny's cell door, and at that moment, the prisoner was absolutely sure that was the end.

Kenny wasn't afraid of death, he just had a great list of lamentations.

"C'mon, you son of a bitch. Give me a chance to make things right", he thought in an internal prayer to his mother's God, the one in which she believed and for which she prayed fervently. Kenny didn't believe that God would listen, but then the door was forced with an ax and swung open, making a terribly loud noise, revealing the silhouette of a tall blond man whose body was illuminated by the orange glow of flames that came from the corridor, with sweat dripping from his forehead.

"Trent?!" Kenny muttered in disbelief.

Trent Boyett was a six feet tall man, with a hair even blonder than Kenny's, in a suitably yellow tone, muscular arms covered in tattoos of symbols that made part of Kupa Keep's history; a guy that had terrorized Kenny during their childhood, but became a close friend of his brother and began to respect him at the time of the rebellion. Trent was wearing a white tank top underneath a black vest, many silver rings on his fingers, feet wearing heavy combat boots that made loud sounds when he stepped further into the room, followed by Kevin McCormick, who was as dirty as his brother's and hid his mutilated arm inside a thick coat.

When he laid eyes on his brother arising from the huge cloud of smoke, with his face smeared with drops of fresh blood and a terrified look on his eyes, Kenny quickly stood up and ran toward the iron bars (twenty eight, there were, he would never forget it) and clung to them as if he could break them with his bare hands, grabbing on the iron between his fingers.

"Kevin! What the fuck happened? What have you done?!"

"Time to go, little brother."

Then he saw the keys flickering between Trent's thick fingers, which were covered in red, while he played with the key chain that had belonged to Bradley Biggle. Kenny trembled.

. . .

At three-thirty a.m., Christophe's shovel was buried in the snow that covered the castle's garden, sinking it into the soft texture with the help of his foot pressing it down, while the cigarette ashes fell freely to the ground, since he had both hands full by holding the handle of his shovel. As he pulled it out with a bit of snow to throw on the pile beside him, the Frenchman straightened his back with an angry snarl, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand, then brought the same hand to his mouth to take the cigarette away from his lips, lifting his chin to release the smoke. His eyes wandered unpretentiously through the balcony of the king's bedroom, and then they immediately narrowed in doubt. Christophe frowned at the sight of a man dressed in black. He had dark skin and hair, and there was a red kerchief tied around his head. He held a rope under his arm. It had been just a figure, but Christophe's eyes were never mistaken. Never. The half cigarette was thrown to the ground and put out under the man's foot.

Christophe tightened the grip on the handle of his shovel and ran as fast as he could.

. . .

At six a.m., when Stan Marsh heard an incessant knocking at his bedroom window, he angrily muttered something, squinting and turning to the side. "They'll give up", he thought briefly, giving no importance to the noise. He had left Kyle's room relatively early the night before to work on attack maps with Gregory until late at night. There would be a battle in just a few days. Stan had slept in his own bed, wearing the same clothes from the previous day, after drinking half a bottle of rum. He deserved to rest. However, on contrary to his expectations, the knocks only got stronger.

Snorting like a wild wolf, Stan pushed the blanket away in an irritated manner, sitting up on the bed, putting his feet on the ground.

"Alright, alright, I'm coming!" He shouted. "Fucking hells."

It took him some time to recover his senses, squinting by the excessive sunlight, shielding his face with his hand as he regained his sight. When he finally realized that the knock came from his window, Stan got out of bed to open it with some difficulty. That crappy window was always stuck. He could already see Gregory on the other side of the glass, and frowned because of the frightened expression on the other man's face. He had never seen Gregory looking so fragile. It scared him like hell.

"What is it?" He asked in concern, forgetting about his irritation, sticking his head out the window and stretching over the railing.

"Come with me." It was all that Gregory said, shaking his head hopelessly. "Come quick."

. . .

It was supposed to be a beautiful day.

The sky was blue like it hadn't been seen for days, open and alive, lit by a gaudy sun that bathed everyone with its warmth, offering hope and harmony for the day that was about to begin. The birds were singing, the wild animals roamed freely, the kingdom began to wake up in peace.

Until the desperate shrill cry erupted in the castle's courtyard, echoing throughout the villages. The fat blue bird that was on the bench covered in snow flew away, frightened by the screams of the woman who ran against the frosty air, trotting like a wild horse. Henrietta's hair hadn't been brushed yet, and her face hadn't been washed, still swollen from sleep. She had no makeup on, which made her look sick because she hardly ever left the house like that. But none of that mattered at the moment; the only thing that mattered to her was reaching the staircase of the castle where Michael's body was lying. The pure white hand had the palm facing up; the man's head on its side with a pair of black lifeless wide eyes, his bloodied mouth with a huge red spot around it. It was only when Henrietta reached him, kneeling on the first step of the stairs to pull the corpse against her body, that she could see the huge tear in the man's chest, a ripping made by a sword that had crossed his ribs and went out on his back, which now was covered with snow crystals that seemed to form a silvery cloak. Henrietta continuously screamed as she held his face tightly between her palms, digging her nails into the icy skin, shaking him into despair and pressing his bleeding head against her breasts, bursting into a frantic cry, breathlessly repeating Michael's name like a mantra.

Token Black could hear Henrietta's screaming, standing just a few feet away from her, but he wasn't absorbing it. He looked around with one hand covering his mouth, his eyes filled with desolation, forgetting to breathe for a long period of time. Soon, there was a crowd. Maids, cooks, cleaners, squires, soldiers, all approaching. Token didn't record their reactions, didn't hear their humming, their screams of horror, their tears, the cries of those who knew and loved the guards lying on the floor in a wide pool of blood. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion around Token. He didn't see the widows or the children approaching. He felt a hand grabbing his arm, shaking his body, and turned his face to see Gregory's terrified expression, although he was trying to cover it up; Token could see his lips moving, but didn't hear a word of what he was saying for the first few moments. He was anesthetized. His lips quivered in terror, his eyes were half closed, and it was only when Gregory put a cold hand on the side of his neck that Token managed to come out of his trance.

"The tower!" Gregory shouted at his face. "Come with me to the tower!"

Just behind the blond man, Token could see Stanley. The two of them exchanged a long stare; the warrior's clothes were wrinkled, his eyes a little red, his hair looking greasy, and he breathed heavily like an animal. Within seconds, Stan pushed whoever was in the way to enter the castle, running fast, maybe faster than Henrietta had. Token watched him go as speedy as a leopard. Turning to face Gregory's eyes, he nodded, following the man in the chaos.

. . .

When they reached the top of the tower, Token was sure he was going to vomit.

He covered his forehead with one hand and winced, grimacing with a disgust that blended with his revolt, feeling burning tears in his eyes. But that wasn't the appropriate time to have feelings, he knew it. Gregory walked ahead without saying a word, gripping the hilt of his sword in the sheath, just shaking his head as he stared at the face of each and every single one of the boys who had been dilacerated and thrown to the ground; some drowned in their own blood, others were beheaded, others were facing down and they couldn't tell what had killed them. One of the guards was completely charred, unrecognizable. For every man they passed by in the long corridor, Token stooped to close their eyes. He didn't know all the guards, but at that moment, he felt like he did.

When they found Kevin McCormick's empty cell, Gregory turned to face Token with darkness in his eyes, gritting his teeth in agony.

"They've escaped, those human rats. I knew it." He muttered between his teeth, and Token chose not to answer.

As they approached the cell number 907, which would also be found empty, a sound caught the two men's attention before they could go any further. A murmur, so low that it could have been made by a mouse; but it hadn't been. Token caught his breath and put his hand back on his forehead when his eyes met Bradley Biggle, such a young and dedicated guard, by whom he had profound adoration. Token rolled lips inside his mouth before slipping down the hand on his forehead to cover it, wincing to keep himself under control when he saw Bradley's huge, frightened eyes staring right back, and the boy muttered and moaned unable to formulate words , trying to find the strength to lift a hand toward them, trembling. Tears streamed from his eyes incessantly. On his abdomen, there was a wide cut that made his viscera exposed, his gut looking as if it had been literally pulled out. He must have been agonizing for hours, Token thought, struggling to open a sad smile as he knelt beside the boy, involving the back of his head with a gentle hand. Gregory watched them with regret in his eyes, taking a deep breath, shaking his head as he simply couldn't believe what he was seeing. He didn't take much time to do the same thing, kneeling on the other side of the dying boy.

Bradley stared wide-eyed in horror, unable to stop shaking, moaning weakly, crying compulsively in shock. But seeing Token seemed to bring some comfort to the guard's eyes. He couldn't speak, and when he tried, Token covered his lips with his index finger.

"Shush. It's alright." He whispered kindly to Bradley, brushing his palm on the boy's sweaty forehead, caressing it slowly. "It's alright, Bradley. I'm here now. You are not alone."

The guard closed his eyes in relief, but the tears kept coming, making his cheeks wet. He responded with a small moan, sounding like a child. When he opened his eyes again, staring at Token with a scared to death expression, the man smiled to him and planted a gentle kiss on his forehead. And then, Token looked up to Gregory, who watched him as he waited for a sign. Token closed his eyes in pain for a moment, but then nodded. And Gregory knelt, slowly drawing his sword from its sheath.

"You will rest now, okay?" Token muttered to the boy. "The pain will go away. I promise."

And Gregory made sure of that.

. . .

Stan ran up the stairs in such haste that he tripped a few times, holding firmly on the railing to keep from falling, never stopping for even a second. The long hallway had never seemed so long, and the curved shape of the wall didn't allow him to see the door to the king's room, no matter how fast he ran. He could not breathe. When he began to see the path of blood stains following along the carpet, all the air seemed to leave his lungs. He screamed the king's name repeatedly, even though he already knew in the pit of his stomach that there would be no response.

Stan only stopped walking when he came across a body thrown to the floor, face down. He immediately recognized the man, and he couldn't move for a couple of seconds, saying to himself:

"No… No, no, no, no. Christophe!"

The warrior began to crouch before he had even reached the body, crawling desperately to be on his knees beside the other man, searching for injuries to know where the blood was coming from; soon he saw the thick, brown hair soaked in blood that dripped down his face. Stan grabbed the Frenchman's wrist, trying to feel the beats of his heart as he pulled the body to turn it, laying the man on his thighs, touching the warm skin of his face before slapping his cheek over and over, harshly shaking him in agony.

"Goddamn it, Christophe, don't fucking do this to me!"

The man squinted before starting to slowly open his eyes, and Stan let out a faint moan of relief, leaning the torso until he had his face pressed against Christophe's chest, clutching the fabric of his shirt tightly in his fingers, shaking his head incredulously.

"Thank the gods, you're alive." He murmured softly, before lifting his head to find the pair of dark eyes staring in a confused, disoriented way. For a second, it was like he didn't even recognized Stan. The warrior smiled at him, but Christophe did not smile back.

He craned his neck to look around, looking more scared than Stan had never seen him before, and immediately the smile vanished from the warrior's face, returning to process the reality of the situation. Christophe's hand reached Stan's wrist and squeezed as much as his physical strength allowed at the time, while the Frenchman tried to lift his torso, unsuccessfully, then grabbed the fabric of Stanley's vests to pull him down, bringing his face closer.

"Ils l'ont emmené." He whispered in a hoarse, feeble voice, shaking his head disturbingly. "Stan?"

"What? I can't understand what…"

"Stan!" Christophe interrupted, shutting his eyes tightly and coughing so loudly that the warrior came to think that he was gulping. Christophe's hand let go of his wrist, and the Frenchman began to shake his head with a pained expression, breathing heavily. "I couldn't..."

"Stay here." Stan said absently as Christophe rolled to the side, letting out a grunt of ache.

Quickly, the warrior stood up, taking a few steps back before turning to run, and the door was just a few feet away, wide open, waiting for him. He entered the room like a hurricane, holding the sides of the door as if he needed it to stop running, calling for Kyle as he looked around. It took only three steps into the room to make Stan froze in place, and a breathless moan escaped his lips as if he had just been punched in the stomach. The warrior's hand sought something he could grab on to, finding a chair placed in the middle of the room amid the mess, and the other hand served to cover his mouth as his eyes widened in horror. Across the room, there was the corpse of a human, Clyde Donovan. Stan had thought that it would be satisfying to see the dead body of a human after pile of dead elves, but there was nothing satisfying about what he saw, because beside the bed, thrown to the ground like a dog, without a shred of dignity, was Pip Pirrup's body with his throat sliced open. Stan pounded on the wooden table with such force that it almost came to split it.

Running back to the door, the warrior shouted with all his strength:

"Where is Kyle?" He asked, and the silence made him barely insane. Taking a deep breath, feeling his eyes burn and his throat tightening, he screamed. "Mole! Where the fuck is Kyle?!"

But Christophe could no longer hear him.


	18. Adieu, mon cher

There were seven people in the room. The silence was excruciating, with the exception of a thin and continuous cry that came in waves, accompanied by the puffy and desperate breath, moist sniffles and contained howls, all emitted by the same boy of swollen red eyes. Ike’s cry wasn’t outrageous; it was quite the contrary, he showed an evident effort to keep himself under control, like he had been asked to several times. He sat on the couch between two men, one of them being Stanley, who kept his arm wrapped around Ike’s shoulders as a way to offer him some kind of comfort, his hand stroked the top of the kid’s head, running his fingers through the thick black hair. The other man didn’t seek to offer any comfort, not to Ike, not to anyone. He didn’t even make eye contact. He kept his hands between his thighs and his eyes on the ground, his mouth closed and teeth gnashing down to contain the lump in his throat, causing a painful grimace, as one who feels the discomfort of swallowing their own vomit. He hadn’t said a word since he had woken up, after been out for eight hours. His eyes seemed to sparkle more than usual, making his iris look like a lighter brown than they actually were. His head was bandaged with a gauze smeared with blood to contain his concussion injury.

Token and Gregory were standing in front of him, Token keeping his arms crossed and his head down, and Gregory licking his lips nervously, trying to land a hand on the man's shoulder as gently as he could. But the other didn’t move. The two councilors exchanged a long look, uncertain, but the silence still lasted for almost a minute, and the room was filled only by the prince’s quiet weeping. In the seat beside them was Henrietta Biggle, hugging a dark blue satin cushion against her chest, and the fabric felt cold to the touch of her hands. The woman was dressed in black, as usual, and had deep dark circles, as usual, a burgundy lipstick on, as usual. But the look on Henrietta’s face was anything but customary. Her eyes weren’t shrewd and observant like they would commonly be; but completely empty instead, as if nothing that was happening around her mattered. But she kept her eyes focused on the two men standing there, with her chin up, waiting. Wendy was standing beside her armchair, attentive as a guard dog. She looked worried sick.

“You have to start talking.” Gregory said, and the calmness in his voice slowly faded away. Being kind was a huge difficulty for him at moments like this, since he had very low tolerance for any sort of weakness. His British accent sounded stronger when he was tense. He leaned forward to get his face closer to the other man's, taking a deep breath before continuing. “You must tell us everything you saw. We’re losing precious time here, you know that.”

It was nearly eleven o'clock at night. Now, there was no exposed corpse in the castle main hall and the blood had been washed off the floor. Maids had spent the whole afternoon scrubbing the stone floor of the courtyard, the wooden floor of the tower, the porcelain floor of the castle entrance. Some of the women wept silently while fervently scrubbing with their brushes, dipping them in wooden bucket full of water, never looking at each other and never talking about the bodies laid side by side, soon to be carried to a proper funeral. A vigil would be done the next day. And for that night, the families would say their goodbyes. Token and Stan visited every single one of the wakes, and had spent most of the night beside Pip’s pale and lifeless body, which was surrounded by yellow roses. Pip had no family in Zaron, or anywhere in the world, since he had been orphaned as a child. Still, there were plenty of people to cry over his body. Token was surprised to see the trickle of tears that flowed down Darryl Weathers’ face, the cook, while the man held his hat across his chest and stared at Pip, who looked as peaceful as a sleeping child. Pip wasn’t that much younger than any of them, but he looked like a little boy in that coffin and it felt disturbing. It felt wrong. Especially since that stern expression that his face held had never been there while he was alive; Pip always had a bright smile to show. " _If the gods need to take someone, let them take the elders, not the boys_ ," said Darryl to Token when he was caught crying. Despite being a coarse man, Darryl had no shame of hi tears. He shouldn’t have.

Henrietta was also, until very recently, watching her man. No tears were shed, at least not during the wake, as she kept her palm on Michael’s chest, smoothing the black fabric of the clothing she had chosen for him. The black buttons on a white shirt and black cloak covering him, the same outfit he wore since he was a teenager, when they fell in love. Henrietta put his cane by his side, even managing to crack a smile as she imagined him standing once again, holding that cane. Michael was a limper for two years, since the day he had immobilized a drunk man who tried to enter the castle and talk to the king. The fucker stuck a damn knife in Michael’s heel, completely out of his mind, smelling like rum and vomit. It hadn’t been awful, but Michael was never able to walk normally again, he would always limp. He was in constant pain in the tendons, but never complained about it. Henrietta gave him a gold-plated cane with the head of a horse on the handle, and he loved that cane about as much as Henrietta loved her books. She smoked over the corpse of her husband as she remembered, quietly offering him one last cigarette because they deserved it. Smoking had been what brought them closer in the first place. She rolled her lips inside her mouth to contain any possible cry, then stroked her husband’s black curly hair, that made his pale skin even whiter, which now seemed to have gained a grayish hue. And she knew that body was not the man she loved. It would never be again. She would never see him roll his eyes to other people’s stupid comments, ever so arrogant, but oh so charming. He would never complain about her food again. He would never kiss her forehead and tell her how intelligent she was. That was just a corpse, a gray figure which had no more life than a rock. And that was not how she would remember him.

Just beside the body of her husband, lay the body of her brother. The person who had told her about Bradley's death was Token, and somehow she was grateful for it. She had been sitting on the stair step for what felt like hours, with Michael’s body on her lap, staring at nothing, after nearly forty minutes of pure hysteria. So Token waited for her to calm down, and for the bodies to be collected. When they took Michael away, Token took her to the castle’s kitchen, let her sit down and made some tea (which she had no intention of drinking), before telling her that the massacre hadn’t been only the castle, where her husband was working as a guard that night, but it had also reached the top of the tower. And there were no survivors. Her younger brother, that frightened, blondie and annoying young boy with whom she had grown up, was still alive when Token and Gregory arrived there. He told her that Bradley didn’t die alone, that he was in peace, that he had held Bradley’s hand the entire time. From that moment, Henrietta began to vomit on all fours to the point that blood started to come out. There were no more tears to be shed. Henrietta had never believed in the gods, any kind of god, but at that moment she wished with all her heart that she had, so that she could blame them. But she couldn’t. She could only scream, punch things, break objects and throw up. And that’s exactly what she did.

When Stan went to them with the announcement that Christophe had finally woken up, Token insisted in a worried tone that she stayed at the wake and said goodbye to her loved ones, that they would take care of anything necessary. But Henrietta didn’t bother to argue, because she lacked the strength for it. The hysterical screams of her mother over her brother’s corpse, Michael’s stitched mouth and gray skin, the cane, it was all so much more than she could bear at the time. There was no way to say goodbye, she would never have that chance, because neither the love of her life nor her younger brother were in those bodies anymore. So she just followed them back to the castle for an emergency meeting. And there they were.

“Mole, _please_ , listen.” Token tried, more eloquent and smoother than Gregory, who removed his hand from Christophe’s shoulder to take a step back, letting Token step forward. “You were in the king's bedroom, we need to know what you saw or what they want. Was it the McCormicks? We know it is very unlikely that they could have acted alone, someone released them. Was it Cartman? He came here, made his demands?”

Token tried to take his fingers to the Frenchman’s chin to touch it gently, in an attempt to bring him to raise his head, but Christophe finally moved, grabbing his wrist with a violent force to harshly remove the hand, finally looking up from the ground. The look was intimidating enough so that Token cleared his throat and straightened up, respecting Christophe’s wish to not to be touched. The mention of the king only intensified the prince’s cry, which increased, and Stan pulled Ike’s head to rest it against his shoulder, whispering something in the boy’s ear.

“You are the only person who saw them and came out alive. The only one, Christophe. Nobody else survived.” Gregory said impatiently. “We need to know exactly what these bloody bastards want from us, so we can bring our king back. We need him more than ever. And we _will_ get him back, do you understand? So start talking, goddamn it.”

“God, just leave him alone.”

Token and Gregory turned to face Henrietta, who now clutched her armchair and stared at them with a frown. Even Ike looked up to gaze her, trembling, with his wet lips slightly parted and hi face red. His nose was running, no matter how much he sniffed. Christophe was the only one who didn’t look, not even reacting to the sentence, but Stan noticed how he shrugged his shoulder almost imperceptibly, and narrowed his eyes, looking like a cornered animal who didn’t want to be there.

When the blond man opened his lips to speak, Token took the back of his hand to Gregory’s chest in order to keep him from moving, cocking his head to the side in curiosity.

“We are all shaken. Nervous. It’s impossible not to be. But we can’t stand still and wait for whatever they’re planning. Do you understand what’s at stake here?”

“With all due respect, Token.” Wendy intervened. “We're at war. We had _two_ prisoners from Cartman’s kingdom, two men who worked for him, the princess’ _brothers_. I mean… Is this really a mystery? Now, we understand that Eric Cartman would do anything to have the Stick. What Christophe could possibly tell us that we don’t already know?”

“We do know it was Cartman, but how did he do it?” Gregory quickly replied. “The forest is too dense for an entire army to go through, and even if they could do it without any of our guards realizing it, which seems quite unlikely to me, no one was awake! Our security is not precarious. So how could only a few men have killed a third of our royal guard, and how could they have done it so silently? Most importantly: what have they done to Kyle? Did they hurt him? Were there threats, blackmails? I want fucking names.”

Henrietta got up from her seat so fast that Gregory was scared, because when he turned his face to the side, he found the pair of black eyes glaring at him from up close. There was no trace of redness or crying in that woman's eyes, quite the contrary; they stared at him with the strength of the tallest wall, as if nothing in her whole life had ever had knocked her down. The fists were clenched, and her chin jutted down so that it looked like her neck had folds. At that moment, Ike covered his face and lowered his head as if he could no longer bear to be there, hiding his damp reddish face in his palms, feeling his head throb. He couldn’t help but cry louder. Gregory's response was simple, as it always was, with his characteristically raised eyebrow, pursing his lips in a thoughtful expression. There was no arrogance in the blond man’s tone, probably because he was terrified and too exhausted for that. He just didn’t let it show so well.

“Christophe’s answers today will be the same tomorrow.” She said with a strangely firm voice. And then continued lower in a listless way. “He doesn’t _want_ to talk. He _can’t_. You just said so yourself... He was the only person who survived a massacre. A fucking massacre, you assholes. Do you have any idea of the things this man has seen? Do any of you pussies have any fucking clue what it’s like to... See someone that you love being taken away from you and not being able to do a thing about it? He _just_ woke up. Leave him the hell alone, you vultures.”

Token’s hand covered Gregory’s shoulder – although it wasn’t actually necessary to contain him. Gregory could transpire a frequent coldness, to be strictly rational, but Token knew him far beyond the surface. The pain and grief in the woman’s words was so eminent, and he always had immense regard for the suffering of others. The British cleared his throat and nodded, answering in his most polite tone:

“Henrietta, we all understand that this matter is now infinitely more painful for you than for us. I won’t lie, I have no idea what you’re going through. Maybe you should go get some rest.”

Immediately, the woman opened her mouth to pour insults and explain how she would never let any personal misfortune stop her from doing her work in such an important moment when the realm had lost its leadership and the Council needed to be more stable and united than ever. But Henrietta had no opportunity to say anything about that, because Ike’s cry intensified as the tension in the room increased, and within seconds, Christophe was standing up.  He had to lean on the couch to get up because the muscles ached and his head still throbbed like hell, and his slow movement made Henrietta contained the words on her lips. All the heads turned to the standing man, in a mixture of surprise and expectation. Because up until then, Christophe had closely resembled a living corpse since he had awoken. He had barely made eye contact with anyone, he hadn’t said a single word or reacted to anything around him. The expression on his face was so blank that it could very well belong to a dead man, but he had an almost scary gleam in his dark eyes as he turned to face Ike, who raised his head in sobs to face him back with wide eyes as Christophe’s big open palm collided against his cheek with all the strength he had left, emitting an awfully loud sound that echoed off the walls of the hall.

And for almost ten seconds, the silence was deadly.

Ike's cheek burned in a color almost as red as the one of his swollen eyes, and so did Christophe’s palm. No one seemed able to breathe for a long time, not as long as Ike’s face remained turned to the side by the force of the impact, hidden behind his black hair, his lips parted in shock. Wendy covered her mouth with her hand, but she was the only one who dared to move. The sound that broke the silence was a groan that the startled the boy let out under a heavy breath, and Christophe leaned the torso to bring his face to the same level as Ike’s. His brow was now furrowed and his eyes narrowed, more expressive than ever.

“Stop. Crying.” He muttered between his teeth, almost without opening his mouth.

When the Frenchman straightened up, he took a good long look in the blue of Stanley’s eyes, which stared at him simply too terrified to make any judgment. And then, he turned toward the other observers, facing each of them briefly, his mouth in a straight line, his chest out, tightening his face muscles momentarily as if to chase away a macabre thought.

The sound of Ike’s crying could no longer be heard. And Christophe left the room with the hard walk of a drunken man, holding on to the furniture to keep from falling. What happened next was almost like a well-rehearsed dance: Wendy ran to the couch where Ike was sitting in the same time when Gregory turned toward the door and Stan stood up, leaving Ike in Wendy’s hands, pointing toward the British with his forefinger so that Gregory didn’t take one more step.

“Don’t you dare.” It was all that the warrior muttered before chasing after Christophe, leaving the room to reach him in the long hallway.

It was a relatively easy task, since Christophe was dragging his steps rather than actually walking; he hadn’t gone very far, perhaps over the lack of desire, or maybe he just really couldn’t. Stan thought it was impressive enough that the man could actually stand up in that condition; with a fractured rib, the head so bloody that they’d had to shave off all of Christophe’s hair to treat the horrible wound on his scalp, an opening caused by what seemed to have been an extremely heavy bash. Stan wasn’t sure about it because the Frenchman hadn’t told them how he’d gotten hurt yet. The wound wasn’t exposed anymore, but the bandages on his head were almost completely stained red. Dark circles under the man's eyes were swollen, really purple, giving him an exhausted air as he seemed about to faint at any moment. The skin was darkened by thick beard that was already beginning to grow, and right in the corner of his lip there was a deep scar, a thin line that seemed to be a part of his skin for a long time, and Stan couldn’t remember if he had seen the scar before or if it was new; the Mole had many.

He looked like a beast in the corridor’s dim torchlight, not a man. He wore a dirty open shirt stained with dried blood, the same with which was found; one day it had been a buttoned shirt, but all the buttons had been torn off somehow, and underneath he was wearing a white wife-beater that marked very well his defined abdomen and the chest. He leaned against the wall with hid back curved, as if he wanted to disappear in himself, with his head down in a way that Stan had ever seen before. Christophe had never been one to lower his head. Stan immediately remembered this one time, when he was just a kid, in one of the occasions when his father had taken him out to fish at the top of the mountain. They found a hillside pig. The boar grunted and breathed so heavily, because there was an arrow stuck right through its paw, and the injury made him so aggressive and so fragile at the same time, moaning as if it was begging for help, but sending loud and menacing sounds when Stan tried to get closer. Stan had tried everything possible to save the animal, but his father insisted it was too dangerous and eventually killed the pig by claiming to be "pitiful" (although Stan knew his father well enough to understand that he just wanted to take the animal home and show it off as a robust hunting, cleverly hiding the part where the pig had been slaughtered when he found it).

Christophe was the boar.

And this time, Stan would save the boar. The thought sounded so stupid inside his brain, but it did offer enough boost for him to run to the other man before he could step back, steadying both hands tightly in the Mole’s arms and pushing him gently against the wall, making sure that the move wouldn’t hurt his (now fragile) body in the process. It was almost painful to see such a strong man like that, especially a man who he cared so deeply for. Stan’s strong fingers tightened the grip around the stiff muscles of his arms, and Christophe offered no resistance; he simply couldn’t afford to do so. He gently laid her head against the wall, frowning to sketch the pain - it wasn’t physical, Stan could see it very well – and then he finally opened his eyes to stare at the warrior’s face so close to his own, licking his lips.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Stan whispered. His face was filled with a smooth, kind expression, and his voice was ever so soft, so comfortable. “Are you listening? It _wasn’t_ your fault.”

Christophe offered him no response for a long time. At least not a verbal response; but he did look away, holding his breath, and rolled his lips into his mouth, deforming the scar. Stan felt the security to ease the grip of his hands, but continued to hold his arms to keep him in place, afraid that he was going to break at some point (although Christophe was already such a broken person that you could only bend him, Stan didn’t think he would ever shatter) gulping as if unsure of what to do before such an apathetic reaction. Because he knew that his words were completely empty for the other man, although he had meant them: the warrior really believed that what had happened had been inevitable; he believed it with all his heart.

The Frenchman's eyes never completely focused on him; they kept staring at what was behind, as if they carried some shame within. They looked so reddened and moist, but not enough to distinguish the fatigue from a possible cry. It was an inconceivable scene, Christophe shedding a tear. And he in fact didn’t. When his brown eyes returned to meet with Stanley’s, they were dilated as if they had just seen the ugliest thing in the world. And that thing was inside Christophe’s mind.

“’E was right zere... So close, _so fucking close_ , looking at me with so much hope. And I couldn’t...” Then his eyes closed and his voice died on his throat, as if he refused to feed the sentimentality of his own thoughts. He shook his head to scare them away, but they only shouted louder in his skull, and it showed when the man retracted the muscles on his face in sorrow and bit his lower lip, having difficulty to breath. “I couldn’t do sheet about it.”

“No one could. Look what they did to the guards ... C’mon, I... I frankly don’t understand how they didn’t kill you, but I thank all the gods for that.”

Christophe snorted and let out a short, bitter laugh, smiling out of the corner of his lips as he shook his head subtly.

“Your gods ‘ad nozing to do with it.”

As he heard a comment so characteristic of Mole, the warrior nodded and stepped back, letting go of him because he was confident that the man was himself again. But Christophe continued leaned against the wall, because his body seemed to weigh two hundred pounds over that time. The shoulders were relaxed and his chin was down, a posture that did not fit him well. Stan cleared his throat.

“Kyle is the strongest person I've ever met.” The warrior said, looking away to the side for a moment, as if he was talking to himself. “If anyone can survive this shit, that's him. I'm sure of it. And we'll bring him home.”

Christophe hadn’t been awake at the moment when Stan discovered the empty room and realized that Kyle was gone. He’d collapsed so fast that he couldn’t even remember having talked to Stan, as the warrior told had him earlier. However, it was not necessary to be awake to know that Stanley had bordered a psychotic attack in the literal sense; and all his calmness, all his rationality, all his certainties were reduced to powder during the first two hours after he had found the king’s room in the condition it was. Stan broke the whole room down. Stan could barely remember doing it, but his wrists were bandaged because his fingers had been smashed in the process, the living proof of what he had done. Stan was a callous man who wouldn’t give up his sanity for too long; no more than the necessary. Within hours, he had recovered and started to think of the next step; take care of the funerals, pay his condolence, think of a counterattack. And Christophe admired that about him, how quickly he could bounce back, how harshly he refused to stay down. The Frenchman had no desire to bring Stan back to that dark place of deep despair that failure led men to. But he knew, he could in fact _see_ how, deep inside, Stan was in shattered in little pieces.

“You don’t know zat place.” Mole’s voice went dense, hoarse, as if there was a lump in his throat. “Kupa Keep isn’t like ‘ere.”

“Well, but they won’t hurt him. They can’t, I mean, they want to blackmail us, they need him all in one piece.”

The corner of Christophe lip rose slightly, but not in a smile. The frown didn’t last more than a moment, but it was enough to make Stan’s heart stop beating.

“Non. Zey just need him alive.”

* * *

The fire crackled so loud that, from time to time, Baahir was scared by the noise and gave a little leap, sitting on a fallen log that they were all using a bench. Trent, right beside him, always let out a chuckle and nudged him with his elbow as he chewed one medium rare rabbit, talking with his mouth full for Baahir to stop being such a scared chicken, not paying much attention to the other men’s conversation. Kevin and Craig were on the other side of the trunk, quietly talking to each other, their heads almost touching. That made them look like two old aunties, Trent thought, but he kept it to himself. Craig stared at the fire, which shone in his exotic eyes, the orange flame reflected within the orbits and danced around. His shoulders were tense, his head fallen forward. Craig’s torso was surrounded by a blue and yellow ethnic poncho, made of wool, but even then the cold came under his skin and he felt horrible chills. They had stopped that afternoon to bathe in the river, which was fucking cold, but they had to wash the blood from their bodies and clothes. However, Craig chose not to. He had stayed on the dry, sitting on the grass with his legs open and an empty look on his face, emotionless. And that’s how his eyes remained. His face, his hands, his clothes and even his boots were still bloody. Kevin tried to at least wipe his face clean using the only hand he had left, but Craig had replied with a low grunt, turning away. So Kevin left him alone.

After a few minutes, Cartman emerged from the trees, still closing his pants, commenting on the piss that had just taken. He let out a great groan of satisfaction, stopping in front of his men, interrupting the conversation between Craig and Kevin only with his presence. Kevin looked up, staring at the king. Craig didn’t.

“Hey, assholes.” The king said, turning to face Baahir. “Whatever happened to Donovan anyway?” He asked as he sat in his own tree stump.

Baahir still had the head band tied on, which luckily had escaped from any splattering of elven blood. He was a strong, tall, proud Islamic man with dark curly hair shaved on the sides. His nose was large, his eyes were a little too close, but overall he was a handsome manly man. There were fingernail marks down his face and neck, deep scratches. He licked his lips as he casted a glance at Craig, unsure if he should tell what had happened right next to a man in that vegetative state due to loss. But Craig turned his head to face him back.

“I want to know.”- Craig said slowly.

And he honestly did, but it hadn’t felt right to ask about it just yet.

Baahir and Clyde had been the only ones sent into the king's bedroom, believing that two men would be more than enough to catch him.

“Well. When we got to the room, there was someone else there. A servant. Neither of them was very large or strong, it would be a relatively easy task. Clyde mobilized the servant, who tried to get in the way, with a knife in the neck. He didn’t want to kill him, it was just a threat because he was a very young guy and didn’t present us any real danger. And I was in charge of getting the High Elf. But he offered a lot of resistance, I guess I underestimated his physical strength at first.” The man said, pointing to the scratches on his face. Then he added with a short, light-hearted laugh. “He bit me. And he screamed, I had to silence him somehow before taking him out of there. Through it all, a man came… He climbed the window. It was very strange because Clyde and I took a while to react, since the man was not an elf.”

“What? How come?” Cartman asked irritably.

“He... I don’t know, he was a human.”

“Wait.” Kevin said in a somber tone, stretching his neck to see Baahir. “Was he a bulky dirty guy with a stupid-ass accent?”

“Huh. We didn’t sit down to have some tea with biscuits, I didn’t exchange many words with him. But yes, he was a foreigner, I believe.”

Cartman frowned and turned his face to Kevin with an air of curiosity around him, but didn’t ask anything about it. Kevin lowered his head to study the bandaged arm resting on his thighs, taking a while before saying:

“It was the fucker who took my hand.” He murmured so restrained that it was like he was talking to himself.

Craig looked back at Baahir and raised his eyebrows in a gesture that asked for him to continue.

“Since it was really dark, we came to believe the man on the window was one of you guys, at least for a second. I don’t know for sure, it was all very fast, but that second of hesitation gave the guy some advantage to come down on me like a fucking tiger. I have no idea how he managed to get up there. Clyde then quickly cut open the servant’s neck and ran towards him. The king saw it and screamed, warned the guy. I managed to shut him up before he screamed too loud for someone outside to hear, but the man immediately turned to see what had happened, and saw Clyde running toward him. I didn’t know what to do when the man grabbed Clyde's arm and twisted so hard that I could hear his bones cracking. But Donovan was a real soldier, you know? They began to fight, he continued to attack the man, even with a broken arm... I couldn’t help him, I couldn’t just let the king go, and he was struggling in my arms nonstop. And in the room there were an altar full of gems, but raw big pieces of them, some fucking heavy stones cut in half, like this big.” He showed with both hands how the thing was about ten inches in height. “Clyde grabbed one of those stones and smashed it with all his strength right in the man's head. But man, the son of a bitch wasn’t even unconscious, it was like he was made of iron. He fell on the floor, there was blood all over the place, but he grabbed Clyde’s ankle and pulled him, he wasn’t going to give it up. It was insane. So Clyde told me to take the king, that he would stop the guy. That’s exactly what I did. From the hallway, I heard a very noisy blow and then a scream. I don’t know what happened in there. All I know is that I waited for him in the main hall, when I finally managed to knock the High Elf out, but… Clyde never came down. I wanted to get back for him, but we were running out of time.”

Craig closed his eyes at the end. He and Clyde Donovan had been best friends since they could remember. Neither men had male brothers, and somehow, that made the bond between them the most strong and unbreakable that Craig had formed throughout his entire life with another human being. He wasn’t an easy person to deal with, he was perfectly aware of that, but there was something between him and Clyde that was just easy. He hadn’t had that with girls, with his own family, with anyone at all. Clyde was whiny, scared, cried very easily, wasn’t the fastest and lacked Craig’s physical strength. He was a little chubby, in fact, but he had the kind of classic face, a beautiful one, and all the girls always yearned for him. Because he was friendly, charismatic, seductive. It was the exact opposite of everything that Craig was. And now that Clyde wasn’t there anymore, and would never be there again, he felt in half. Incomplete. In all his years serving this ungrateful cause, Craig had never experienced the true meaning of loss. There was a hole in his stomach and he thought he might throw up his own guts. He covered his forehead with his hand and shuddered. Kevin's hand began to stroke his back.

“God, he was always the sluggish one.” Cartman said with a tone of completion.

“He was a good man.” Trent said, finishing off his rabbit.

That night, after everyone fell asleep, Craig would silently weep into his pillow. He couldn’t believe it.

* * *

Kyle opened his eyes. He didn’t awake slowly, gradually regaining his consciousness with a blurred vision or anything of the sort; no, he awoke abruptly, startled, lifting his neck to look around, breathless and sweating cold. The shackles were tightened, locking the blood circulation in the wrists, leaving his hands almost purple; but he couldn’t see it because it was too dark. He almost let out a scream of terror when his eyes met Kenny, who was sitting with his back resting against the all of the covered wagon in which they had been thrown many hours before. Kyle had been unconscious most of the day, what the blond attributed to some of Cartman’s witchcraft to keep the redhead from bothering them. Kenny also had his members tied up, although he hadn’t offered any resistance to his former fellows.

“Shush, calm the fuck down. Don’t make any noise.”

Kyle opened his lips as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. He looked up, then down to the dusty wooden floor. Through a small opening, entered the orange glow of the campfire out there, but its light was too weak so he could see Kenny completely. Kyle rummaged his body discomfort, low moaning by the headache, squinting.

“Where... What...?”

A few seconds of silence lasted, because Kyle was not sure what to ask and Kenny didn’t know what to reply, no matter what the question was. The blond had spent the last hours awake, watching the unconscious elf while daylight still allowed him to see that pale face, so peaceful, and he deeply dreaded the moment when Kyle woke up. Kenny knew it was his own fault, and it would still be his fault looking at the situation from any possible angle, but he didn’t waste any time with such martyrdoms: he had spent your day mentally structuring a way to take Kyle away from there. So far, it wasn’t going so well.

“Cartman is taking us to Kupa Keep.” Kenny explained in whispers, leaning on his elbow in an attempt to approach the redhead, who pulled away instinctively. This made the blond hesitate for a moment, but he decided to ignore Kyle’s reluctance, because what had been important yesterday wasn’t important right now. “He is... I don’t know for sure, but it’ll be okay, my sister is there.”

“Good for you. I'm sure you're anxious to get back home.” The High elf replied bitterly.

“Hey.” Kenny protested, raising his bound wrists. “I am just as much fucked up as you are, c’mon. Don’t do this now.”

The king's reply was simple. He rolled to the other side of the small wagon, far enough to make his point as he gave the blond his back, remaining in silence. Kyle could see his breath in front of his eyes, as the warm air of his lungs met the cold air of the night. Especially in the forest, the cold was violent and he was still wearing the same thin clothes he used to sleep, bare and cold feet. Kenny let the silence get settled, keeping his eyes fixed on Kyle’s trembling and shrunken body. He wanted so badly to get closer, but something on the tip of his stomach made him stay still, dropping only a murmur.

“Kyle...”

“Don’t.” The answer came immediately, cold and impatient. Hurt.

“Please.” Kenny whispered, finally crawling with difficulty to get closer to him, respecting a necessary distance. “You’re not alone here.”

“Fuck you.”

With that, Kenny rolled his lips into his mouth thoughtfully, considering if he should (or even could) push a little further, but eventually gave up. He let out a deep sigh, full of remorse, only a low muttering curse as he forced his arms to try and knock his fists against the floor, but the limit of the rope got in the way. Kenny lay down on his back awkwardly, hitting his head on the wood without much force before trying to relax his muscles.

And they didn’t say anything else for that night.

The orange fire that illuminated them burned all night long. Kenny had no notion of time, since he had been stuck in a cell long before they found themselves in that wagon, but his ability to mentally measure time was increasingly accurate. Perhaps two or three hours had gone by until he started hear Kyle's teeth chitter in cold, because the temperature dropped as they entered the dawn. Kenny was in a semi-conscious state, which was the closest he came to sleep for the past few days, because there was always some storm exploding inside his brain. He lazily turned his head to face the elf’s back, noting that little figure shrinking in his body, shaking involuntarily to conserve heat, moaning thinner than a mouse could. Kenny ran his tongue over his teeth as he watched. He wanted to call his name. He wanted to say that it would be okay, make promises, to tell Kyle that he would keep him safe. He wanted to take care of him. But the words had no power. Even in his mind, they sounded vague and empty.

So Kenny did what he could. He dragged his body silently closer to Kyle’s. It was hard to move, and he couldn’t wrap him in his arms, which were tied tightly to the point where they left marks on his skin, but Kenny pressed his chest against the elf’s back and buried his face in those red wild hair, subtly inhaling the scent, fitting his legs behind the other man’s. He couldn’t hold him. He couldn’t involve him with his legs to warm him up. He couldn’t even make Kyle turn to face him. But he could simply _be_ there, and somehow he thought that would make a difference. And he did so. Transferring heat from his body to Kyle’s, feeling the king’s heart pounding in his chest, his heavy breathing. The chatter was slowing down, the redhead’s breathing was getting quieter. Calmer. Softer. Kyle was awake, he could feel it, because he had watched him sleep so many times that he already knew by heart how his body worked, and it was amazing. Kyle didn’t fight to get away from him. And very soon, he wasn’t shivering anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven’t slept in 45 hours, I’m so sorry if there are too many mistakes or if this sucks in general. I just want to get this uploaded and go to sleep. Should I call the BP president to say how sorry I am?


	19. Midnight Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh boy. That took forever. Here's a long-ass chapter to make up for the wait!
> 
> Watch out for the gore, as usual.

The Kingdom of Kupa Keep was covered by a black cloud that announced a storm. The books told the stories of three Great Storms, for the southern kingdom was a land of long sunny summers and pleasant mild cold during the winter, where flowers and fruits sprouted all year, the trees never lost their green leaves and the harvest was always good. The rains always came in winter, making the weather ugly, but refreshed the air and were welcomed in their rarity. The three Great Storms marked dark ages for the Kingdom of Kupa Keep: the first from the records came many centuries ago, when the king's only son and sole heir of the throne, a little three years boy, was murdered by his uncle in his own bed in the middle of the night. According to the books, the queen went mad with the loss of her boy, and threw herself from the Lion Tower, the tallest tower of Kupa Keep at that time. The first Great Storm lasted twenty days, snatching the peasants’ houses, destroying villages, dragging people and animals, causing mudslides on the hills that surrounded the valley and knocking down trees. No one was prepared. Eventually, the sun returned to shine, bringing with it the hope of a long and peaceful spring. The king remarried, beheaded his own brother who had killed his child, made a baby in his new wife and the reign of the Garrison lineage prospered once more. The second Great Storm occurred over a hundred years later, when the kingdom of Kupa Keep lost the war of Pèrre, a dispute for the lands of Meadow Pèrre that lasted over a decade. The king was killed in a battle, and according to the legend, the natives of Pèrre served his head at the feast of victory, devouring his body until only the bones remained for burial. The second Great Storm lasted fifteen days, flooding the streets of Kupa Keep with all the unstoppable force of nature, perhaps causing more devastation than the first one, because even though the duration was shorter, the intensity was much stronger. The economy was in crisis, the army was helpless, the new king was too young to structure the realm by himself. His great counselor, who had been the deceased king’s best friend for thirty years, led the boy until he became who would come to be known as the Righteous King, restoring the peace in Kupa Keep during his eighty-year reign. The third Great Storm would take centuries to happen and, as the books told, it was the worst one. The great-grandfather of the Hat King, Herbert II, was a man of extremely military thinking, and decreed that every ill, weak or debilitated man, regardless of age, would be sacrificed to serve as a "deadweight loss" to society. There was a massacre. Babies were torn from their mothers' breast to be raised by the militants, and those who were unfit would be thrown from the grand cliff, the Turtle Cliff, the highest of all Zaron. It was the third Great Storm that washed the blood from the streets, destroyed a great part of the king’s army and ended up killing him. Herbert II had never learned how to swim.

When the dark clouds began to gather over the castle, covering the villages around it with its shadow, never allowing the passage of sunlight, much had been speculated. People started talking that dark times approached. But Eric Cartman was only a superstitious man when it came to things that suited him, and he believed that the clouds covering the blue sky was a good sign, because it was a glorious day, a day of victory. And nothing would take the smile off his face. Because that was the day when all the cards would be put on the table, all satisfactions would be taken, and he had the absolute control over the situation. That was the day when Kenneth McCormick would pay for his betrayal. And so would Kyle Broflovski. Cartman had unshakable certainty that God was on his side. It was only fair, after all.

* * *

Kenny covered one eye with his hand, although keeping the eyelids open and his pupils attentive for any movement. He was convinced by then that he would spend the rest of his days rotting in a cell, if he had any luck. He hadn’t seen the outside world for weeks, although he had caught a glimpse through the tiny window of the wagon when they arrived in Kupa Keep. Kenny immediately recognized the green hills, after all, he had grown up surrounded by them. He was home.

But the place where Kenny would sleep that night was very different from his previous house in Kupa Keep. He didn’t live in the castle with his sister; he had opted for a refuge in the county, in a wooden house that might not be much bigger than the cell he was in. But it was much nicer, that’s for sure. Up until that point, he hadn’t taken a moment to miss home. But the longing was there somewhere, and it was with nostalgia that Kenny thought of his little garden in the backyard, on the green lawn, the squeak of the window with the wind that blew all night and he always forgot to close it. He missed the fleece blanket that his mother had knitted, and even after so many years, it still smelled like her. Above all things, he missed Marjorine the most. Cartman, of course, hadn’t allowed any contact with his sister until then. But the blond didn’t let that shake his expectations; he knew his sister well enough to know he was not alone.

And in practical terms, he really wasn’t; because he could hear the muffled cries on the other side of the brick wall. It was the kind of restrained crying that insists on coming, even against the will of those who weep. He couldn’t see Kyle, but in his mind, the image was crystal clear: the redhead was probably shrunk and embracing his knees, with his head down, trying for all that was most sacred to be strong. Kenny ran his eyes around the cell, biting his lower lip, feeling the throbbing chest over his own inability at the time. That cell was quite different than the cells on the Elven Kingdom, starting with the fact that it stank beyond words. There were no iron bars, it was a cubicle surrounded by four walls and a door with only a small, high window that let in some light during the day. There was hay on the floor, for some reason. A wooden bench, a stone pillar to sustain the exaggeratedly high ceiling, one bucket for defecating and nothing else. He hated to picture Kyle in such environment.

“Kyle.” He gently called.

The crying continued in sobs, breathless, and Kenny was sure for a moment that he would be ignored. He couldn’t blame him. But much to his surprise, after a sniff and a deep sigh, the elf’s breaking voice emerged on the other side of the wall, very low and weak:

“What?”

“Don’t cry.” The blond promptly replied, kneeling on the floor to turn his face to the wall as if he would enable a contact between the two “It'll be okay. I promise. I...”

He hesitated for a moment, running his tongue over his lower lip as he turned to slowly sit on the floor again, resting his hand on the dusty wood boards. His blue eyes were almost as wide as he waited for an answer, _any_ answer, but the only sound was the gasping cry. Kenny glanced at the door, as if he was expecting some manifestation from the guards anytime soon, telling him to shut the fuck up, if he still remembered how things worked in Kupa Keep. That didn’t deter him. He continued:

“Kyle… I swear to you. I will die a hundred times before I let them do anything to you, do you hear me?”

“Gods.” Kyle whispered in response with what seemed to be a weak laugh, wiping his damp face, returning with his boastful tone that sounded so familiar to the blond. “Do you really think that's why I'm crying? I'm not afraid of Cartman.”

The blond stuttered.

“Huh. Okay. So...?”

Kyle didn’t answer right away, giving the slight impression that he was not yet prepared for any kind of conversation. But he gave in earlier than expected, his voice still laden with pain and melancholy, smaller than Kenny had never heard from him before.

“I didn’t want to pour my own wine.”

It was all he said.

Maybe it was meant to clarify something, but only made Kenny more confused. He frowned in estrangement, twisting his lips before making mention of replying anything. He thought he hadn’t heard it right. It was hard to talk through the bricks.

“What?”

Kyle closed his eyes and subtly shook his head, which was an almost imperceptible movement. The tears quickly ran down his flushed cheeks, his lips quivered uncontrollably and his hands were shaking, such was the torture of being alone with his own conscience in a closed dark room.

“P-Pip is dead. He’s dead because I couldn’t pour my own wine.” He explained, trying to keep his voice under control.

Thunders echoed outside, sending a flash of light that broke into the cell through the tiny window, enlightening the room, soon disappearing in the air, and all was darkness again. The sound took a while to arrive, so loud it made it seem like the walls around Kenny shuddered, interrupting his attempt to say something back. Which, analyzing coldly, was a good thing; because Kenny was sitting in the dark with no idea of what to say, how to say it, what to even _think_. His cold lips were slightly parted, his eyes had lost all luster.

“Pip’s dead?”

The elf king nodded before realizing that the other man couldn’t see him. He sniffed again, squinting to contain more tears that threatened to come, for he was tired of them.

“He is.”

Even the horribly loud noise of thunder would have been welcome to end the deadly silence that settled between them, but not even a nosy mouse could be heard walking around the cells. And there were many rats there, Kenny had no doubt of that. Immediately, the image of the blond boy holding his hat came to Kenny’s mind, with his pointy little ears appearing through his ridiculously smooth hair, cut to look like a bowl, the crooked shy smile of a person who had never seen evil in this world. Kenny gulped, slowly lifting his chin to look up, as if his vision could cross the ceiling and the clouds and the cosmos, until he could see heaven – which he didn’t even believe in – only to find Pip waving up there with that absurdly big and ugly bow tie that only he would find wearable. At that moment, Kenny believed in heaven, because that’s where Pip’d have to be.

“Shit.”

A bitter taste filled his mouth. He was sure he would vomit. All the blood, the guts, the smell of burning flesh, the half living eyes staring at him, the face of Bradley Biggle agonizing on the ground, none of that had come out of his mind since they left the Grove. None of that would have happened if he hadn’t been there, if he had done what he was told to do, right or wrong. And being aware of that was just like a direct blow to the stomach.

Kenny suddenly punched the ground, kicked the wooden bench and screamed louder:

“Fucking shit!”

He expected that one of the guards poked his head through the door opening and commanded him to shut up, but no one appeared, and this was by far the least of his worries. As he rubbed his face, sliding his fingertips through the greasy hair, he remembered that Kyle was on the other side of the wall, and thought of the silence that he was offering, as if the elf simply didn’t have a word to add to that. “Shit” pretty much summed up the situation. Kenny took a deep breath, still rubbing his hand over his mouth for a while, feeling the beard scratching his own palm.

“How?” He asked bitterly. “What have they done to him?”

He knew that wasn’t the right thing to say, but it didn’t matter. Kyle could expect anything else from him, perhaps he even sought some comfort in that dark and filthy cell, proud as he was, but Kenny couldn’t afford to give any. He could barely think straight. The hand still covered his mouth after speaking the words that felt like a poke in an open wound for Kyle.

He took a while to respond, and Kenny complied with this immensely.

“He wasn’t supposed to be in my room when they arrived. He should’ve been in his bed, asleep, away from all that madness. Safe. But... I couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t want to be alone, so I... I asked him to stay in my room, serving wine.” A pause. And then, his voice was lower: “I just wanted company. Few people know how to keep somebody company like him. Then… Those men came in, and he tried to… Gods, and Christophe showed up, I don’t even know if he is...” The king brought his hand to his eyes and lowered his head, wincing to maintain firmness in his voice. His head was boiling. “The guy cut his throat open like it was nothing. Like it didn’t even matter, as if it was just a reflex for him. And now… Pip's dead because I couldn’t pour my own fucking wine.”

Kenny spent a long time staring at the wooden floor, watching the slime that was growing between the cracks because his eyes were now more accustomed to the darkness.

“You can’t think like that.” He said in a hoarse voice, clearing his throat.

“It's the truth.”

The blond almost let out a chuckle.

“How selfish can we be, holy shit. Kyle... We can’t control a fucking thing. He didn’t die because of you. Things happen because they happen, there is no way to change that. You couldn’t have stopped it.”

He immediately regretted the harsh tone he had used as soon as he was left again in silence, because the king had no intention of debating philosophies about the running of the ropes that held and controlled the universe. Kenny licked his lips, feeling a salty taste on the tip, then took a deep tired breath. Nearly a minute passed before he decided to pursue, now in a calmer tone:

“The loss itself is so painful and cruel without us to be thinking about what we could have done to stop it. I'm sure you know that, being an orphan. I used to think that every day, religiously, how I should have never taken my sister to the trenches. Every single day. Shit like that starts to drive you insane after a while, it's too much weight for anyone to bear. Believe me, it's a lot better when you discover that you’re not important enough to be the cause of anything, especially someone’s death. If you’re not the one who stuck the arrow or the bullet or the sword or whatever the hell killed him, then the fault is not yours.”

Kyle remained silent.

Kenny's fist clenched. He pressed his lips, tapping his fist on his knee repeatedly, showing his jitters.

When he opened his mouth to speak, it was as if the air finally invaded his lungs again:

“Although… I really do mean it when I say I won’t let anything happen to you. That much I’ll find a way to control. I’m dead serious, Kyle. You say you’re not afraid of Cartman, but... Maybe if you knew him like I do…”

“Oh, I know him plenty.”

Kenny narrowed his eyes at the answer. He considered asking about it, but the words were so brief and sounded so obvious that the blond opted for relaxing his muscles, lying on the hay that covered the floor. He closed his eyes.

“Well. We should sleep. It was a freaking long day.”

Outside, the rain began to fall.

* * *

Kenny was awakened by a kick in the back, so hard that made him hit his head on the wall as he was thrown against it, soon feeling all the spots in his muscles that throbbed with pain and discomfort by punches and kicks that hadn’t yet healed properly. He didn’t know the guard who pulled his arm sharply to make him get up, but he was already beginning to miss the elven guards who didn’t wear that heavy armor, weren’t as big as a closet and didn’t spit in his face whenever they felt like it. Those were some nice guards. The man’s yellow phlegm landed right next to his eye, and Kenny wiped it off with the back of his hand, providing a grin in response, thinking how wonderful it was to be home.

“Good morning, dear.” He said to the guard, who immediately told him to shut his mouth.

As he was dragged to his destination, with half-closed eyes over the hassle of bright daylight, shuffling like a zombie, Kenny heard footsteps behind him. He turned his face to find Kyle with his hands cuffed in front his body, just like the blond, with heavy chains that dragged along the floor, his hair looking more orange than ever, falling over his eyes like those of a furious feline, shining in a feeling much more controlled than anger, but much more intense: he looked like he was mentally calculating how he would kill every human that dared to put their hands on him during his stay in Kupa Keep, that’s what Kenny understood. He wore the same fine white clothes from the night before, now very dirty, and he wasn’t wearing any pants; his legs were exposed, his feet were bare, his pale skin was covered with patches of soil. They exchanged a long eye contact before Kenny turned back to look forward.

The corridor was long, with tall windows that let in narrow beams of light that burned Kenny’s eyes. He knew that way painfully well because despite not living in the castle itself, that’s where he spent most of his days when he was a free man.

Soon, he heard Kyle’s voice:

“Don’t even. Stop it, you pig!”

The guard who escorted Kenny was a tall man with long hair that played between a red and brown color, depending on the light. The man suddenly stopped walking in the middle of the hallway, wrinkling the carpet under his feet, making Kenny stop by holding his arm in a firm grip, pulling him closer. The blond also turned his face to find the guard holding Kyle by the waist, with his thick hand dangerously involved in the curve of the redhead’s hip, squeezing the flesh, keeping his face close to the elf’s ear. He was an even taller human man, bulkier, with a hideous scar across the left eye. Kenny knew him from sight only, and knew that his name was Rynn, but that was it.

“You son of a whore.” Kenny said, lifting his handcuffed wrists, mentally considering the damage that iron handcuffs could do to the man's face. But he was abruptly held back by the long-haired guard, who pointed the tip of the spear against his neck.

“Easy now, blonde. Hold still. Let the grown-up handle this.” He warned with a smirk, and then immediately turned his attention to the other guard. Kyle hit his elbow awkwardly in the man’s stomach, and the guard held him by the hair instantly, while the cutting edge was pressed deeper on Kenny’s throat. When everyone was steady, the man quietly continued. “Hey, Rynn, the fuck is your problem? Do you want the king to cut your hand off, is that it? You want to be maimed like this dude’s brother? Watch the fuck out.”

That sounded weird, uncomfortable and it made Kenny’s blood boil in his veins, for more reasons than he would be able to list. But his problem was just beginning, and he didn’t want to rush and spoil things now. He simply held a long eye contact with the man, returning the patient smile as he pulled the spear away and they continued walking to their destination, which, he figured, would be the king's private chamber.

He was right.

The chamber was large enough to accommodate the huge golden statues of the great warriors of Kupa Keep, including one of the very own Eric Cartman right in the center, looking much slimmer and majestic than he actually was - like statues should be. The two prisoners were placed facing each other, sitting on wooden chairs that completely clashed with the rest of the room’s rich decoration, which exaggerated in the amount of gold and diamonds and even had a huge fountain in the entrance, that produced a strangely comforting sound of running water. Kyle didn’t look Kenny in the eyes, perhaps because it was the wise thing to do, and not because he was hurt. The previous night seemed to have reestablished the bond between them, at least some of the remainder connection that they used to have. It was comforting to know that the other was there, even though they were sitting on opposite sides of the room.

The king was already waiting for them when they arrived. He was wearing a bearskin robe, with dark circles under his eyes like he’d had a sleepless night. As soon as he laid eyes on Kenny, who came in first, he offered a sarcastic greeting citing how deeply the kingdom had missed him. But when the elf king stepped into the room, the smirk on Cartman’s lips grew in width, and Kenny immediately realized that, in the eyes of the human king, everything else was gone at that moment. Kyle was the only thing he saw, with pupils dilated like those of a wild animal sighting its prey. That didn’t exactly manage to make him worried.

Now they were sitting at different points of the chamber, with handcuffed wrists resting on their thighs. The guards had offered to tie the prisoners down, but the king said there was no need for that. They could exchange glances, but rarely did, especially since the robust body of Eric that was standing between the two of them. The king asked all the guards to leave the room, except the man with long hair who would be at the door making sure no one else got in. He didn’t want anyone to interrupt the confabulation they were about to have. There was a blush on Eric’s face, not one of shame, but of joy and vitality. Although he didn’t look well-rested, he was rejoiced with the situation. The glow never left his caramel eyes. The color of his iris seemed more alive than ever seen before.

“So.” Cartman said excitedly, clapping. He was turned sideways to the two men, so that he could see them both at the same time, keeping his distance. “The three of us have important issues to resolve, don’t we? Now, I don’t understand what’s up with these faces, we’re all comrades here. Let’s just have a little friendly talk.”

Kenny let out a low laugh, shaking his head, and immediately received a disapproving look from Kyle, but the human king turned his face towards the blond with a smile illuminating his features, a shadowy smile, full of malice, too entertained with his own sadism to get annoyed.

“See? He gets it.” He said to Kyle with a gesture pointing to Kenny, with his palm facing up. “Do you want to know what will happen here today? You must be dying to know what I brought you here for, aren’t you?”

“Just get on with it, Eric.” Kyle said in an exhausted tone, with his eyes closed.

Cartman kept staring at him, but instead, he walked toward the blond man who was watching the other two with his chin up and a slightly raised eyebrow. When Cartman stood beside him, laying a hand on his shoulder (to which Kenny did not oppose, or even reacted), finally he continued:

“Oh, Kyle. If you're so anxious, why don’t you start?”

The redhead frowned.

“And what exactly you want me to start?”

For a moment there was no answer, for the king seemed distracted just carefully watching Kyle’s face, with his lips a little parted. Right after that moment, he licked them, as if thinking of something deliciously profane. The idea made Kenny’s stomach a little sick, so he looked away from Cartman’s face, turning to face the elf.

“Kenny, buddy.” The grip on the blond man's shoulder got stronger. “I don’t blame you, you know? You've been duped. I understand, that's what he does. The exact same thing happened to me. It's not your fault that redhead viper got you. Luckily for you, I'm here as a childhood friend to enlighten you.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Cartman?” Kenny asked, more annoyed than confused.

Cartman cracked his finger joints slowly, and the mischievous smile still played on his lips, making his face ugly in the sickly light of the torches. He glanced at the High Elf, as the two shared a secret that was about to be revealed; although Kenny didn’t believe that was the case.

“You don’t seem very willing to start, Kyle. Then I'll be happy to initiate.” The king said, letting go of Kenny’s shoulder, walking toward the redhead, who stared at him with hateful narrowed eyes. Cartman seemed satisfied with that look, putting both hands on his back as he approached.

* * *

_Here's what happened: I was just a kid. What was I? Fifteen, sixteen years old? I believe I was sixteen going seventeen, but hell, I can’t keep numbers in my head. That’s not important. I know it may seem cruel to the elven faggy philosophy of life, but here in Kupa Keep, we start to train and fight at a very young age. A man learns the value of his sword as soon as he has enough strength to lift one, and that I've had since I was eight years old. It was a sturdy little fellow, always have been. Every boy, until a certain age, is a wussy little girl. Like any teenager, I was an asshole. I blindly believed in the causes of my king, the dictatorship that human people should reign sovereign to all others, and that was what I fought for: a cleaner world, just where the human superiority and authority were respected. Unfortunately, at times, our own beliefs can come back to bite you in the ass. The Hat King decreed something at the time, something that was called "cleansing process", which aimed to get rid of any immorality in our lands. Black people were burned alive, queers were hanged, and... The women who worked at the cabaret were stoned the on public square. My mother was one of those women. I watched her execution. Now, my mother could be a filthy woman, but she didn’t deserve that shit. I never wished that for her. And if it happened today, I would have taken my badge off and stuck it in the General’s eye, but as I mentioned earlier, I was an asshole. A stupid wuss who didn’t know any better. I went on fighting for the king because I was an oath keeper soldier and I had sought the cleansing process, I knew it would be the best for our society in the end._

_Then it came the Battle of the Founder, a confrontation that would go down in our history books, telling the disgraceful defeat of Kupa Keep. The Light Elves caused the most beautiful bloodbath; I saw my fellows being beheaded right in front of me, human soldiers dropping like flies, being cut in half as if they were made of paper. Oh, I can still smell the flesh and blood in the air, the sweet smell of war. There was skin everywhere, eyeballs, guts and gray matter... It was beautiful. Simply beautiful. The elves showed that day who they truly are. At the end of the battle, Kupa Keep’s army acknowledged the massacre before every single soldier was killed, and they retreated without checking for living men. They just left us behind. I was one of those men, perhaps the only one, barely living amid a pile of corpses with a compound fracture in my leg, unable to move. My body was in shock, I guess. I could see my own bone ripping through the skin on my ankle, and my flesh was hanging there… Not the nicest sight._

_Grotesque details aside, I lost consciousness after bleeding for more than three hours, sure that would be the end. But I didn’t want to die. And I demanded God, that son of a bitch: you made me so that I would be rejected my whole life, you give me a whore of a mother, leaves me with no father, then you brutally take away my slutty mom who was pretty much the only person who had ever loved me, and now I'm going to die just like that? Under those dirty elves’ terms, letting them decide my fate? Fuck no. No. I refuse. I fucking refuse it._

_I was certain that, one way or another, I would leave that field of death, and I’d do it alive._

_Of course, at this point, I was fucking delirious. Completely nuts, talking to God and shit. Or at least I thought I was crazy, because amid the rotten smell, the flies and maggots, the wide-eyed and lifeless faces of the corpses, a creature arises. And he literally glowed, in this fascinating blue light that surrounded his entire figure. For a moment there, I thought I was already dead, because it was the closest thing to an angel I've ever seen._

* * *

“Oh, Cartman, for God's sake. Stop lying.”

“It's not a lie, you shitty elf! You fucking glowed!”

“Elves don’t glow, you ignorant, stop making things up!”

“Well you did, you demonic fairy, that’s how you attract unaware humans. Kenny must have seen it too, right, Kinny?”

The blond chose not to manifest about it.

Kyle took a deep breath.

“Are you getting somewhere with this?”

“Of course I am, but stop interrupting me. Jesus Christ.”

* * *

_Now, by any means I intend to magnify such an evil creature, but you must understand, for a kid who was lying on the ground among hundreds of dead bodies with insects landing on his face and waiting for your life to end just so they could plant their eggs in your eyes, anyone who showed up would be a sign of hope. I had no idea he was the prince of the elves. Of course, you always know the name of the enemy’s royal family, but I wouldn’t waste my time memorizing faces of stupid children who would soon be killed. Or at least that’s what the Hat King planned. What I didn’t know, and I think nobody knew, was that the High Elf’s eldest son accompanied his father in battles and worked with the nurses, caring for their wounded soldiers. He was supposed to learn something about the nature of war, the value of work, or it was all for the purity of the prince’s heart, any crap like that. He was looking for elves that were still alive. That’s not exactly what he found. There I was, with the bone of my fractured, cutting open through my skin, coughing up blood like a son of a bitch, shivering by the smell of death around me, surrounded by men who had been fighting beside me just a few hours before. I was gazing at this... creature, I couldn’t tell exactly what he was since this giant afro-ginger hair covered his pointy ears. That hair is unnatural. I even thought it was a human child, but I didn’t give a fuck about it, I just wanted him to get me out of there._

_Not that I would ask that of anyone, I couldn’t even speak. But I didn’t need to. I saw the expression on his face when he laid eyes on me, so hesitant, so scared, and when I realized that I was still alive and that I could still feel the pain, that he was no angel, I thought he was going to leave me there. Damn, how it hurt. The smell of soot was almost unbearable, I felt my stomach churn inside out, my throat was so swollen I was suffocating. I couldn’t see right. The creature became only a blur, suddenly approaching me more and more. I can’t really remember very well what happened next. I woke up a few times and I do have this memory of being in a wheelbarrow, with the most fucked wryneck in the world, but I never recovered my conscience for too long. I remember the flying birds over my head when I opened my eyes, probably vultures, because at that moment I wanted to give them the middle finger and tell those butchers to go take in the ass. I would not become their meal that day._

_I’d only really wake up hours later, when it was evening. I was inside a cave, believe it or not. The Battle of the Founder took place in a crag, I could still hear the sound of waves crashing on the rocks, the wind coming from the south blew so strong that it whistled. And now, I could clearly see that he was an elf - because the hair was behind his ears - crouched a few feet from me, twisting a damp cloth in a bucket of water. I was surprised, to say the least. The cave was illuminated by two or three candles, enough for me to see the face that turned to gaze me, and... Holy shit, how young he looked. My head was pounding, my chest was burning, my leg hurt so much I wanted to beg him to amputate it, but all I did was ask him what the fuck he wanted from me. I barely had a voice, it made me feel like shit, because my speech came out all pasty and hoarse. And the bastard smiled at me, can you believe that?_

_He smiled and said he wanted nothing. Then, with all the authority of the world (and I should have guessed that he was a fucking prince only for that arrogance intrinsic to his words) had to get back to his camp before they noticed he was gone, that I should to try to sleep and that he would come back the next day to take a look at my wounds. Simple as that. I was supposed to drink a lot of water, which he had brought me, and I some other shit that I didn’t pay attention to. I thought he was fucked up in the head. It made no sense that an elf saved the life of a human, that kind of thing was unnatural to me._

_Only then I realized that he had brought a small goose feather pillow for my head and another one for my leg. By himself, he had put my bone in place while I was passed out over the pain. Impressive, isn’t? He wanted me to be impressed, this meticulous bitch snake._

_As said, he returned the next day with food. We had our first chance to talk, when I was no longer groggy, although it was a very brief conversation; I asked when he was going to kill me, he told me to shut up and eat my stew. He wasn’t dressed like a prince, in fact, quite the opposite. He wore clothes poorer than yours, Kenny, who has nowhere to drop dead._

_“Who the hell are you anyway?”_

_“Kyle.”_

_“Kyle. I had a bitch with that name once.”_

_“How interesting.”_

_I smiled at his sarcastic tone, by the way he raised his eyebrows without looking at me. It was like… We spoke the same language for a moment there. Well, I was still very, very broken. I could barely sit down. He always kept a safe distance from me, which told me that he didn’t entirely trusted me, except when he wanted to take a look at my wounds, pouring a stinky crap on them, and it burned as fuck. I swore a bit, but never really talked about it. Although I was very curious, I won’t lie. I wanted to know that animal and wondered why he was doing what he was doing, surreptitiously appearing at odd hours to medicate an enemy with herbs or whatever the hell that was, on the first I was sure it was poison . As you can see, he didn’t poison me. Perhaps he should have done it when he had the chance._

_On the third day, my curiosity was stronger than me._

_“You never answered me, young lady.”_

_“Huh?”_

_“When I asked what you wanted. What’s your thing?”_

_He was silent for so long that I thought he would ignore me, and by then I was thinking of a more persuasive way of making him speak, when he rose from the floor, the dripping sponge in one hand, red curls swaying in the wind, taking a good look at me._

_“I want you to live.”_

_I'll never forget his face when he said that, so secure, as if his words were real._

_You want the short version of the story? I can narrate in sordid detail everything he did to drag you into his web, Kenny. Everything. I know the soft-spoken gentle words he used, the way he touched your face and told you how you had value, how you were better than the things you did, how he saw you were good at heart, and that he believed in you. I know how this lightweight hand caressed_ _your hair and made you forget everything that was right for you before you let go of your true reasons. I know about the intimate exch_ _anges, the nightly conversations, how he made you open up for him, made you tell him intimate details of your life. You told him about your little sister, perhaps? You did. I knew it. He didn’t have to do anything to make you open your mouth, he just looks you in the eye and you feel so safe, like this wall you've built your whole life simply falls apart in the blink of an eye. You have forgotten who you are, what your name is, where you belong, who you’re supposed to defend,  for which cause you serve, all because of that little fag. I know all that because he did exactly the same thing to me. He saved my life to softly whisper his fairy witchcraft in my ear, putting his hand on my thigh and telling me how strong I was, how truly good I was, that my only mistake was fighting for the wrong reason and the wrong king. He made_ ___me say things about the Hat King, the dictatorship, the hunger, the tortures, my mother’s murder. H_ _e never told me who he really was, dressed as a ragged and made_ ___me believe that someone in this fucking world actually cared about my miserable tin soldier’s life. He made me tell him the about stick, the things that the Hat King did with it. And I was so goddamn retarded, I allowed him to trick me so easily. All I could feel was th_ _e hate eating me inside. The rage of losing my mother, of serving an oppressive man who’d leave me behind without even blinking,  and I told Kyle, with my eyes burning, that I knew where the stick was, that the corrupt motherfucker was careless, and that Jewish snake fed my desire to start a resistance to overthrow the king, to steal the stick and retake the power of the people. He fed my hatred, my need for revenge; he used my sorrow to make me say what he wanted me to say. And I did. I told him where the king held the Stick of Truth. I didn’t even notice, it just came out so naturally._

_And then, do you know what he did? Do you, a dumb blonde_ _?!_ _He ran to his daddy and told absolutely everything I had confided._

* * *

Kenny blinked slowly.

His head remained bowed, frowning, the greasy blond hair covering his face. Lips slightly open, exposing the yellowish teeth, as if he had forgotten how to close his mouth. He wasn’t part of that moment, and he was perfectly aware of that.

The human king’s imposing body was now much closer to Kyle, turned to face him, and the two of them looked like they were still living the described memory as if time hadn’t passed since then. For a few seconds, Cartman even looked like a sixteen year old boy, beneath the rich cloths and beard, the worry lines that he had acquired as a king. There was a plea in his eyes, deep inside, well hidden, because at first glance you would only be able to see hatred and grudge.

“Eric.” The elf said in a tone so gentle that only seemed to infuriate the other man even more. Now, Kenny raised his head, watching the scene from afar, like he wasn’t even in the same room as them. Kyle shook his head as if unsure of what to say, licking his lips. “I am so sorry. But it wasn’t how you think.”

“Oh, really?”

“I don’t... Heavens, I didn’t take you from the battlefield to gather information! I didn’t manipulate you. And I didn’t dress as a poor to fool you in any way, that’s just how... Look, what happened in the cave was real. I did care about you, Eric, I swear. But when you told me about the stick, I... I thought that would be the end of the war. I had to tell my father. He swore he wouldn’t hurt you, and he didn’t!”

A devilish smile appeared on Cartman’s lips, bitter and defensive. Then he gave the elf his back, turning around to face Kenny, gesturing with his hands.

“See what I mean? This is exactly what I'm talking about.” Then, back to Kyle. “And partially, I need to thank you. If your coward father hadn’t _stolen_ our stick, we never would have succeeded in overthrowing the Hat King by raising a rebellion. It’s thanks to you that I am a king, Kyle. Now...” Clearing his throat, regaining posture, the king stepped forward, slowly placing one foot in front of the other. “We need to deal with what you did, Kinny. See, just because I understand why you did it, that doesn’t justify your betrayal. You were a bad, bad boy.”

“ _Cartman_.” Kyle insisted. “Whatever your problem is, you have to solve it with me. Let’s deal with this as adults, leave Kenny out of this. Your little revenge doesn’t matter now, we're in the middle of a war.”

“Don’t tell me what matters, Kyle.”

“Come here.” The elf said in an almost agonized request. “You don’t want your people to get hurt, right? Because they will, if you keep us here. Think this through. My men will come for me, you know that.”

The king had stopped halfway, but didn’t take a single step in the redhead’s direction.

And meanwhile, Kenny's blue eyes were burning before the events, highly concentrated to the point of not even blinking. The expression on Kyle’s face was carefree, his eyebrows were arched and his chin slightly lifted as he signaled with both hands stuck together so that Cartman would walk towards him. Suspicious, the human king argued using some profanity, but Kenny didn’t absorb it, he didn’t hear a single word that came out of Cartman’s lips. Something was growing inside Kenny.

“I know I'm not in the position of negotiating, Eric. But please, be rational. You know my Council won’t give you the stick to have me back, they are clearly instructed to protect it at any cost. They don’t even know where it is, I’m the only one who does. So you can kill me at once and put an end to it, or we can talk about this as civilized people.”

Something burst inside Eric Cartman even before Kyle’s last sentence was completed. He trotted like a wild horse toward the elf, grabbing him by the thin fabric of his white shirt and pulling him hard, moving Kyle's limp body without difficulty, shaking him with the strong hand so that the elf's neck snapped forward, responding in an uncontrolled voice:

“Do you seriously think I'm retarded? Don’t use this little voice with me. I know exactly what I have on my hands and how much it’s worth.” The hand released the fabric and rose to his face, his fingers digging into the flesh of Kyle’s jaw to make him lift his face, and those emerald eyes weren’t intimidated, not even for a second. “You don’t want to annoy me, you little bitch. I'm already losing my patience with you.”

The fat palm collided against the pale face, before Kyle had the chance to answer whatever it was that the king didn’t want to listen. The noise was loud and the flush was immediate, leaving the red and burning mark on the grimy skin of the elf who narrowed his eyes and lowered his head with a faint moan, feeling a tingling and sharp pain that didn’t actually transpire for very long. Kyle raised his head just in time to see Kenny, fast and silent as a mouse, jumping from behind of Cartman’s  back, passing the king's head through his arms to press the handcuffs against his throat, pulling back so hard that Eric almost fell over him, emitting a strangled grunt of surprise, leading his big hands to squeeze Kenny’s arms, tightening the grip so hard that the blond could feel the nails digging into his muscles, but Kenny didn’t relieve the pressure at all, forcing the chain of his handcuffs so harshly against Cartman’s neck that both his hands started to tingle. The king began to choke, sucking air through the mouth in almost desperate gasps, his eyes widen in terror.

The noise was loud enough for the long-haired guard to kick the door open, but Kenny didn’t appear to give any importance to the man who ran in his direction with a spear.

“I’ll kill you, you fat motherfucker.” He damnably muttered against Cartman’s ear, whose face began to change color, taking an almost purple hue, while the chain locked the passage of air through the larynx. Cartman tried to cough scandalously, shaking his body in an attempt to throw Kenny on the ground, but the grip was too strong; The handcuffs fastened him to the king’s back, making sure he didn’t fall off, so Cartman’s movement only made him choke harder. The veins of the blond man's arm were protuberant, concentrating the full force of his body to remain on top of the man, like a knight who stays mounted on a wild horse. “Do you hear me?! I will fucking _kill_ you.”

The guard’ beautiful hair lifted as he ran, his entire face puckered as a grunt of attack escaped his from lips, the blade of his spear was pointed at the angle he had mentally calculated since he’d opened the door. Kyle stood up when he realized what was happening, but it was like he moved in slow motion while everything else happened around him like a train wreck: the spear tore through the flesh of Kenny’s neck, and in less than a second, the tip came out through the nape, nicely stuck just below the Adam's apple, lacerating the larynx completely, crossing from side to scrape the cervical. The impact made the two men fall to the ground, Eric Cartman and Kenny McCormick, but now, Kenny’s arms didn’t have any more strength. The guard pulled back the bloody spear, holding Kenny’s head under his foot to keep it in place, since it had struck so deeply, and the sound of the blade coming out was wet and dreadful. The blond convulsed on the floor, and a jet of blood stained the clothes, the hair and the face of the human king, who was lying right beside him, with Kenny’s arms still around his neck.

Kyle screamed.

Cartman breathing heavy as a bull, filling his lungs with air while he blindly used his trembling hands to get rid of Kenny’s arm, taking a few moments to simply roll on the floor and take long, deep breaths, still coughing, grabbing his own neck. Still recovering, he sent a sharp signal to the guard to help him get up. It was only when he stood once again that the king seemed to resume his posture, smoothing the wrinkled clothes casually, then taking a good look at the handcuffed man on the floor. Now, it looked like he had drowned in his own thick and dark blood that was overflowing his mouth, producing choking sounds, his eyes bluer than ever.

Kyle was on his knees. He no longer screamed.

The redhead very slowly crawled closer to Kenny, who still struggled one time or another, emitting guttural sounds, wet and desperate, gradually losing movement.

“Kenny...” Kyle said almost inaudibly, his eyes so wide they could have jumped out of their sockets, difficultly turning the blond around with his cuffed hands, trying to lift his head, but he was shaking too much to realize that the blond was no longer there. “Ken...” He murmured, but the word was interrupted by a shuddering gasp, almost like a groan of pain as he lowered his face to touch his forehead against Kenny’s chest, soaked wet with blood that ran down his neck and mouth. Kyle pressed his face against him as if seeking the beating of a heart which was no longer beating.

“Oh.” Cartman said, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe the blood off his face very quietly. “What a shame.  I had so many fun plans for him. Stupid ass.”

Kyle didn’t react to it because he didn’t hear a word of what was said.

Cartman rubbed his own hurt neck, as if he still felt the chain powerfully pressed there, outlining a pained expression. But it lasted only a moment. Soon, he turned his attention to the elf on the floor, head down, his red hair falling over his lowered face, his hands clinging to the dead man's filthy shirt, pressing it against his body, kneeling as one who prays for him to just get up from the dead. The king had to laugh, albeit briefly.

“Looks like it's just you and me after all, Kyle. I’m sure we can enjoy ourselves without him.”

Slowly, the elf was lifting his head, his damp eyes appearing partially behind the red strands of hair stuck to the rosy face, his whole body trembling, and expression completely lifeless taking over his features. Kyle gathered all the strength he still had to mumble, still clinging to Kenny’s shirt with his fingers, shaking with anger as the muscles of his face twitched in a macabre way.

“There's nothing… _Nothing_ you love that I won’t destroy, Eric. Nothing. I’ll take away your throne… Your power, your castle, your people…  Your home, your beloved… I’ll be the end of you. I swear.”

 


	20. Bear again

A blond man woke up in the forest.

It was dark. The rain fell fiercely over his body.

His vision was still blurred and distorted as his eyes became accustomed to the absence of light, revealing the shape of leaves and branches which belonged to the trees above his head, somehow protecting him from the rain by serving as a roof. Soon, blue eyes closed once again over the blazing feeling inside his lashes, caused by the water falling on his face and the sharp pain that pierced his skull like a knife. The blond man took both hands to his head and squeezed it in his palms, holding it still as he moaned muffled. His movements made the dry leaves beneath his body produce loud cracking noises, some of them breaking under the blond man’s weight. Silently, he wished it was early in the morning, since the darkness of the forest and the sounds of animals that he couldn’t see were starting to make him nervous. The raindrops ran down inside his nostrils, causing a terrible sensation, as he was drowning. He was taking heavy, long breaths in pauses for his head to stop spinning, like he was drunk, only without the pleasant ecstasy that alcohol used to bring. The man's nose dripped a bit of blood that soon the rain would wash away, but still stained his lips in a gorgeous red color that contrasted beautifully with his blue eyes, which were now finally open. The bluest thing that had ever existed.

He had things to do. Very important things. The pain in the back of his head was no longer so latent, so the blond man could lift his neck, blinking slowly to send the accumulation of water trickling down his cheeks, mingling with the other hundreds of drops. His body was cold as a corpse, and it was no wonder; he was completely naked in the woods under drenching rain, exposed and wet. He slipped his hand on his face, unsuccessfully trying to dry it with his equally soaked arm in an attempt to get his vision back. It would be nice to see anything, anything at all. He wasn’t too deep in the forest, that much he knew. It would only take a kilometer to get out of the woods, and then he would know exactly what to do, where to go. The blond man took a deep breath. His back, his butt and the back of his thighs were covered in mud, causing a wet and uncomfortable feeling on his skin. His hair was probably the worst part. But he would have time to clean up later; he had to filter his priorities at the moment. Anyway, soon the rain would wash the mud off.

He leaned on his knees to get up. Straightening his trunk caused a twinge in his kidney, as if he had been kicked on the back, but he did nothing besides releasing a grunt of pain. The top of his head started to tingle, such was the force of the raindrops crossing the trees’ foliage upon the blond man. He slid his hand across his forehead, licking his lips, tasting blood. The mud oozed between his fingers, soiled his brow and impregnated in his hair, and he was sure he was stinking, but couldn’t actually feel it. His breath was still panting, heavy, making him sniffle to pull the air through his nostrils, feeling the discomfort of the water he had previously inhaled.

His bare feet sank in the mud as he walked, first in slow steps, accustoming his body to sustain its own weight again. Not an easy task, he was aware of it. The knees buckled as the blond man tried to pick up the pace, feeling the softness of the wet earth under his feet. It was nice. He paused to stretch, accustoming his muscles to the movement, stopping for a moment to fill his lungs with air, as if he could feel in every cell of his body: he was alive. Cold water dripped through his pale skin, and he shivered, feeling ticklish, but it was almost pleasant. The blond man’s torso was exposed and his raced heart beat inside the broad chest, strong and stiff arms muscles contracted by the cold wind that accompanied the rain, his defined abdomen and his bare flaccid dick, wet tangles of body hair covering the prickled skin. He would freeze if he didn’t get out of there soon.

In the distance, under the loud rain noise, he could hear the sound of marching soldiers who trained for the battle; yells, curses, metallic sounds of clashing swords. The rain didn’t matter to anyone, because the training would continue even under a blizzard, day or night. The war was coming to an end, the blond man could smell it. He could also smell death approaching. Death, his old friend. He had to do everything in his power to make sure that the right side won the war.

He was used to climbing trees. With his skin completely exposed, the blond man scraped his thigh on the bark of the tree’s trunk, making dark blood run down his leg, soon diluted by water. He felt no pain. His right foot was also cut, but he didn’t realize it at the time and would never know how that had happened. It was only when he was on at the tree, sitting on a thick branch that his foot started to burn. He didn’t stop to look at the cut because his hawk eyes were focused on the guard who watched the rear entrance of the castle. It was dark and that man was alone, unaware.

The blond man needed clothes. The guard had clothes.

He smiled. Maybe his luck was beginning to change after all.

* * *

Gregory massaged his temples, keeping his elbows on the table. His head felt like it was about to explode, he could have sworn it would, and everything he wanted at that moment was to be sitting on his armchair at home, drinking chamomile tea in complete silence. That’s not how Gregory would spend his night. His eyes were bloodshot from the lack of sleep, watering. He yawned, continuing a sequence that had been initiated by Christophe, infecting the rest of the group. They were tired.  

On the round table laid an unwound map of Zaron, crumpled on the tips, streaked with red along the coast, with a series of circles and big “X”s at specific points. A stack of four books was dangerously close to the edge of the table, threatening to fall, but no one seemed to pay attention. There was also a letter. Around the table sat Gregory, Stanley, Wendy and Token. Henrietta and Christophe were smoking in the window. When Wendy glanced at Henrietta, catching the woman with a long cigarette between her fingers, she gave a disapproving look at her friend. Wendy didn’t mean to do it, but it was almost instinctive when she thought of the baby Henrietta was carrying. Henrietta didn’t even notice her glare. Or maybe she just didn’t care enough about it to react, given the weary look on her face, the dark circles under her eyes, the void in her pupils. Wendy didn’t say a word about it. She didn’t have the heart to take anything from Henrietta at that moment.

Wendy’s long black hair was trapped in a bun atop her head, exposing her pointed ears with pearl earrings that were much smaller than the ones she used to wear. She looked different that night. Stanley always noted the difference in Wendy when she was ready for the dirty work. She knew how to take off those silky and lace dresses to wear peasant clothes when it was necessary. Her beauty seemed much stronger, rigid even, her focused sharp eyes never leaving Gregory. Stan looked down and ran his hand across the top of his head, feeling his own hair, which wasn’t shiny and soft as usual. He cleared his throat. Token also faced the same direction as Wendy, sitting right beside her, pressing the curve between his index finger and thumb firmly against his jaw.

They were waiting.

“This is completely off the table.” Gregory finally said, putting his palm over the letter from Kupa Keep. The parchment was smooth and he wanted to tear it apart in little pieces.

“ _Nothing_ is off the table.” Token responded immediately.

“This is. Don’t tell me that any of you actually believe that it would be a good idea to give the Stick to that... Mental case. Yield to the blackmail of a terrorist? And who says we can trust that he will fulfill his part?”

Gregory’s British accent was thicker when he was tense.

“Calm down.” Wendy replied authoritatively. “We are analyzing the situation. Stop drawing conclusions for the rest of us.”

Stan took both hands to his face and rubbed it, leaning backward to rest his back on the chair, breathing deeply. He needed quiet, something that he hadn’t been able to experience for a long time; but he knew everyone in the room would rather be somewhere else, a place where they didn’t have to think about anything anymore. He could see it in the eyes of each of them. Stan felt disconnected from those people, and yet, at the same time understood how they felt, because his mind wasn’t entirely there with his mates either. He wasn’t planning to say anything at the meeting, since he didn’t feel like spending his time speculating aloud. His mind was working a mile a minute.

His blue eyes met Christophe, who hid behind the cigarette’s blue smoke, with parted lips and attentive narrowed eyes. The eye contact lasted about four seconds. He knew what the man was thinking, probably in French; it was the same think that the warrior had on his mind. Stan considered that it might be better if he spared Christophe from having to say out loud what they both were thinking. He was about to separate his lips, against his will, but he didn’t have the time to say a word before Gregory’s voice echoed again.

“All right, let’s be democratic then. Does anyone really believe that we should accept Cartman’s so called _deal_?”

The warrior raised his eyebrows as he watched Christophe put out his cigarette on the windowsill, throwing it out casually, finally approaching the table. The man stepped between Wendy and Stan, supporting his hand over the smooth surface of the table. His nails were so gnawed that they had bled a little, and the dried blood remained on the exposed flesh of the tip of his fingers. It looked painful. The Frenchman’s head was still protected by bandages, which Wendy made sure to change twice a day, because they both knew that Christophe wouldn’t do it on his own. He didn’t like it, of course, but the woman never gave him many choices.

“What is your idea, Gregory?” Christophe asked in a hoarse voice, sounding a little annoyed.

Gregory raised an eyebrow, offering an exaggerated expression of familiar arrogance in his features. There was a surprised glint in his eye, which was to be expected, since Christophe hadn’t opened his mouth to say a word on the past few days. Gregory and Christophe were rarely in agreement, no matter what the subject was, but in every interaction between the two men, you could feel an unresolved tension around them that affected everyone involved. Wendy could feel butterflies in her stomach, not at all in the good way. Stan felt a shiver down his spine. Token’s facial expression shut down immediately. That’s because everyone knew and could feel in the air that there was no middle ground between Christophe and Gregory.

If Gregory had any idea of how to answer that question, he would have immediately dumped his words with that property of one who knows everything, one who has no doubts. As unpleasant as Gregory’s intonation usually was, it always gave the others a sense of security. Just like Christophe, Gregory was one of those people who always knew what to do and what was best (though rarely agree on what that best was), or at the very least that was the impression they gave. The blond slid his tongue over his top lip, breaking eye contact, shaking his head.

“We can invade Kupa Keep. We are in greater numbers, our men are further trained.”

Christophe opened a sickly wry smile, running his thick tongue over his barely brushed teeth. He exhaled through his nostrils, resembling a buffalo about to attack. Wendy rested her hands on the chair arms, clinging to them to relieve the tension that had taken over her body, and Stan covered her hand with his, never taking his eyes off Christophe.

“And what exactly will prevent Cartman from sending us Kyle’s body parts in ze meantime, while you plan your attack?”

“Don’t say that.” Wendy replied, not giving Gregory any chance of responding.

The blond man lifted his chin, his head hanging to the side in a crooked manner, narrowing his gaze with suspicion as he studied the Frenchman’s position. Christophe was now supporting both hands on the table, leaning his torso toward Wendy.

“You people don’t understand what’s ‘appening ‘ere. Zat’s not what you want to ‘ear, I know, but it's ze truth. Just give ‘im ze fucking Stick and maybe Kyle’ll come out of zis alive.”

“Christophe.” Token called, in a tone of warning, rather than retaliation. “We're fighting a war because of this Stick. Lives would have been completely wasted, all of our work, all the gold invested, all the negotiations will be thrown out the window, all the won battles... It's just not that simple. Cartman will do horrible things... If we let him have it. This wouldn’t be the end of it.”

“I don’t care if ‘e will shove zat Stick in ‘is goddamn fat ass.”

“Kyle cares.” Stan subtly said, licking his lips nervously as he felt Christophe’s pair of brown eyes running to find him. “You know he's going to send us marching right back at Kupa Keep to get the Stick from Cartman. Kyle wouldn’t accept it if we just... Handed it to him.”

There was an unexpected moment of silence. If anyone else had uttered those same words, perhaps the answer had been another. But it wasn’t just anyone saying it, it was Stanley Marsh, and that made Christophe seal his lips, pressing them nervously, rolling them inside his mouth as if to contain words like they were vomit. He nodded without saying yes or no, lost in his own thoughts.

“Maybe...” Stan continued, visibly bothered by the silence. “If there was a way to _use_ the Stick to...”

“We can’t do that and you know it.” Henrietta intervened from afar, her voice much more aggressive than usual.

But Stan didn’t know it. Not really. The Council members looked at each other briefly. Only five people had real knowledge of the Stick of truth’s properties; Gregory, who was responsible for the military forces of the kingdom. Token, who was the higher representative of political forces in the Grove and also the king’s personal adviser. Henrietta, who ministered all matters related to witchcraft. Wendy, who was the voice of the cleric, handled all the issues concerning spirituality and healing. And Kyle, the king. Only members of the Council obtained knowledge of the Stick’s true power, which protruded many legends and rumors about whether or not it could accomplish anything.

“There are rules. For all kinds of magic, there are rules.” Henrietta continued, warily, seeking some reproachful look on the faces of the other councilors. She licked her lips stained with burgundy lipstick, taking one last drag on her cigarette (the last that she would smoke in a long time), putting it out on the crystal ashtray that Christophe had chosen not to use. Then, Henrietta approached the table. “But the Stick’s power is superior to all these rules. At least for those who own it. It's magic in its purest form, without perforations, without restriction. It's... Wonderful, actually. Too wonderful for any individual of any race to handle it. They say the power saps your energy in such way that you would go mad just by holding it in your hands, if you’re unprepared.”

“What do you mean, “ _they say_ ”? You never saw it?” Stan asked.

Christophe slowly lifted his torso and narrowed his eyes in suspicion, staring at Henrietta, getting his hands away from the table.

“None of us has ever seen it.” Token answered for her. “We don’t even know where it is.”

“What?” Christophe said, thinking aloud, with his thick eyebrows furrowed. “You're fighting a war over a twig zat you never even saw? ‘Ow do you know zat sheet is even real?”

“Stop calling it that.” Henrietta said, irritated. “You have no idea what you're saying.”

“Well, enlighten me.”

“The Stick shows all sorts of horrible things that exist within us. They don’t call it Stick of Truth for nothing, it reveals who you truly are, everything good and bad that you carry inside you, once you take it. Kyle knew that. He _knows_ that. That's why he has never told anyone where he keeps it, because the power of the Stick of Truth gives you the false ecstasy that you are a god. That is why such a diabolical creature like Cartman would cause unimaginable destruction if he possessed it, just like the Hat King did. You know that, Mole, you were in Kupa Keep when that freak reigned. We can’t let that happen again.”

Stan was probably the only one who noticed how the Frenchman bit the inside of his cheeks to keep himself from responding anything as soon as the name of the Hat King was mentioned. For everyone else sitting at the table, there was no change in Christophe’s expression. He didn’t reply. But Stan saw the pain in his eyes.

So the warrior asked:

“Cartman kidnapped the only person who knows where the Stick is?”

There was a long moment of silence. The air was so tense that it could be cut with a knife.

“Not exactly.” Token said in a hoarse voice before drinking a glass of water that was in front of him, taking a deep breath before adding. “Only members of the royal family have that information.”

A long sigh escaped from Christophe’s nose, as he shook his head and crossed his arms. His features became more rigid. Stan glanced at him quickly, and then turned his face toward Token, but the advisor stared at the glass of water he had just rested on the table once again, as if he felt ashamed of what he had just said.

Stan raised his eyebrows, lips parting slightly. He felt Wendy’s small hand holding his arm, but ignored the touch.

“Ike?” The warrior asked in disbelief, not even waiting for an answer. “No. No, he's just a boy! He probably doesn’t even remember where...” He said, his eyes focused on Token, who lowered his head and closed his eyes, sliding his hand on his forehead. “We can’t involve Ike.”

“All right, listen up.” Gregory announced aloud suddenly, placing his fingertips on the smooth surface of the map on the table, standing up from his chair. The arrogant tone was there again, and it brought some comfort to almost everyone in the room. Gregory pointed with his index finger down, putting it on the drawing of Kupa Keep on the map, depicted in yellow and red. “We can’t give up the Stick, but we can’t deny his offer. They have our king, for god’s sake. We can’t take risks because Cartman has nothing to lose here. So let's make him believe that he has. Let’s give him something to lose. We will respond to this letter...” Gregory grabbed the piece of parchment between his fingers, kneading it carelessly while he raised it in front of his face. “…This cheeky dull piece of paper... Let’s respond to it agreeing to his terms. And in regard to anyone outside this room, that's exactly what we intent to do.”

Stan covered his face with his hands.

Christophe turned his back to him.

Token frowned in an expression of disapproval.

Wendy closed her eyes and let out a low moan.

Henrietta didn’t change her expression.

But no one dared to ask any questions. Gregory put down the letter and pressed his hands on the surface, sliding them across the table, leaning forward. His eyes were focused, determined, contemplating nothingness as the future began to be scrawled right before his eyes.

“Henrietta.” Gregory called, without looking at her. The woman's dark eyes rolled toward him, but she didn’t move an inch, remaining in the exact same position with her mouth in a straight line and her arms crossed, her expression completely blank. “Without the Stick’s owner… Without Kyle, there's nothing we can do with it, right?”

“I believe that not even with him. It's too powerful. These… Rules and restrictions in witchcraft serve to protect those who practice it, to maintain order. It would take a wizard, a very powerful and experienced wizard to manage it. Cartman has this advantage, he understands gruesome details of witchcraft. He knows how to make the Stick obey him.”

“And who would have enough experience to go with Ike to wherever the Stick is and then bring it with us on the trip to Kupa Keep?”

“Wait, wait.” Wendy interrupted, raising her palm. “Why do you want to take the Stick if we can’t use it to our advantage? This is too risky. Especially for Ike. And there’s no point to it!”

“Because we won’t fool Cartman with just any piece of wood. The power of the Stick pulses, you can feel it behind your eyes.” Henrietta explained in a blasé, indifferent tone. “If we are to make him believe that he will have the Stick, we need to take it with us. He has to feel it. His greed will make him blind, and then... Maybe we’ll have a chance.”

“Maybe.” Gregory murmured in agreement, still standing.

He started to massage his tense neck, laying his head from side to side, blinking slowly. While his eyes were open, they were always locked in the contours of the map, which had been carefully hand drawn by an albino master who knew Zaron like the palm of his hand. Gregory mentally traced the path they would have to do, and at which point they would meet the human army. He licked his lips slowly, looking up at Stanley, facing him across the table. Right next to Stan, he found Wendy Testaburger’s pair of eyes burning as she glared at him.

“What you’re proposing is treason.” Wendy said in a tone loud enough to refer to all present, but her eyes never left Gregory’s.

“To be treason, zere must be trust.” Christophe murmured, still giving his back to the group, annoyed by that conversation. He turned his face aside, but not enough to meet Wendy’s gaze. “In war, zat doesn’t exist.”

Christophe’s approval, albeit in a rough tone, relieved the expression lines on Gregory’s face, such lines that made him look much older in the dancing light of the candles on the table and the torches on the walls.

The words seemed to make Wendy give in to the idea, indulging in silence, slightly lifting her chin to watch the candle flame right in front of her, keeping a thoughtful expression. Token leaned his elbows on the table, shaking his head hopelessly. He was speechless, which was a concern for a man whose job was to always know what to say. Some other words were exchanged, three voices talking at once, Christophe spitting on the ground, Wendy rising from her chair as she raised her voice to Gregory, Henrietta reaching for another cigarette, but soon giving up on lighting it. Token didn’t pay much attention to anything around him. He was busy brushing his fingers across his lips, analyzing his options.

Soon, the room went silent. Wendy put her hands on her hips and huffed, nodding. Gregory looked away for Token and raised his eyebrows, trying to read the expression on the other man’s face. Token immediately responded. The voice came out in a calm, complacent tone, as if it were obvious:

“That’s not right.”

There was no judgment in those words, it was simply a statement. Gregory straightened up slowly, holding the edge of the table and squeezing between his fingers, the elegant features of his face looking rigid as a statue. His blue eyes met Stanley, who kept his head bowed and hands clasped in his lap, as an autistic child in the midst of chaos.

“You're awfully quiet.” Gregory said to the warrior.

Stan looked up absently, raising his fingers to brush them slightly against his jaw. He looked around, as if only then he had noticed the presence of other people in the room. His eyes were small, like he was sleepy. He blinked slowly before focusing them on Gregory, releasing a faint growl from the depth of his throat, dropping his hand to his lap again.

The silence was restored.

The warrior shook his head as if he didn’t want to say a word, pressing his lips together, rubbing his warm hands between his thighs.

“Token is right. It's not the just thing to do.” He said in an almost timid voice. “I used to… Believe in this, in honor above anything else. If you had proposed this to me a few years ago, stabbing a man in the back, I would have left this room immediately. No matter how much that man deserved it. But... After what this man did to Gerald Broflovski, who was like a second father to me my whole life...” He closed his eyes and paused for a deep breath. “After invading our homes and killing our guards in such a cowardly way that they didn’t even know what hit them, after taking away the most important person in this world to me... I don’t care if it isn’t right. I don’t care about justice. I just want Kyle back. I want Eric Cartman's head on a pike.”

Token joined his hands in front of his face, fingers interlaced.

“I agree.” He simply said.

“Excellent.” Gregory replied with a satisfied smile. “But we still need a sorcerer who knows how to handle it, to contain it. And to keep it protected, someone who knows how to use it if necessary. We can’t just let anyone take care of the Stick once we get it. It’s dangerous.”

“Kyle had anticipated that.” Token said quietly. “In any case of emergency, we must bring the Mountain Twins to take care of the Stick. That's what Kyle would do if he was here.”

“Oh, no.” Gregory muttered, glancing briefly to the side, rubbing his eyes with his hand as he lowered his head. As his heart beat, the vein in his forehead throbbed in pain, somewhat turgid over stress. “Goddamn it, not Terrance and Phillip.”

“I hate those guys.” Henrietta complained, rolling her eyes.

“Who?” Christophe asked impatiently, taking his hand to cover his sore hip.

Stan took his index finger and thumb to pinch the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for a moment before taking a deep breath, explaining:

“They are elven wizards, but they’re not from Zaron. They’re from the same northern land where Ike was born, but they come from a folk called Duo. They’re... Strange. Really strange.”

“But you won’t find better magicians than them.” Wendy added.

“Well, we have another problem.” Henrietta suddenly said, reaching for the stack of books on the table, knocking the two books on the top to get the third one, opening it on the table and browsing through it as she spoke. “Cartman used an ancient spell, a spell that only the dark forest spirits know, to mobilize the guards. _Adhuc retines_ , it’s a spell performed with the eyes.” Henrietta’s long nail roamed through the letters in the yellow page numbered 406, written with ink pen. She read out loud. "’ _Adhuc retine:  may the red eyes be the beginning, the end and the means. Only the one whose retina was burned by the Lord of Darkness can perform this spell_.’ Nobody survives that hex. The person is completely frozen and can’t even blink, they’ll never be able to move again. The pain is excruciating, but they can’t scream. That's what they did with the castle guards. With… Michael and the others.”

“Damien.” Token summarized.

“ _Et succendit hominis_. The burned man.” Henrietta continued. “That's what he did with the tower guards. They died... Burnt inside. I think they weren’t expecting so many guards in the tower. They did it carelessly, and not with every guard.”

“But why?” Wendy asked, crossing her arms, frowning. “Why would Damien help Cartman? Forest creatures don’t have political influence, usually they don’t get involved in wars.”

“Maybe he's not helping Cartman. Maybe...” Token speculated, stroking his chin. “He is using Cartman to get the Stick for himself.”

Henrietta shook her head, keeping her eyes peeled in the book’s small letters while traveling between pages 101 and 102, with a slight crease between her eyebrows.

“I highly doubt it. Like Wendy said, Damien is a forest creature. He’s not socialized. Only men of civilized culture understand the nature of power, that only means something to those who live in a society. Damien doesn’t want to control anything... He is free from cultural patterns. But he wouldn’t work for Cartman for free, he must want something very personal.” The woman spoke, but her brain was still focused on reading that thick and heavy book. The book’s cover was a maple color, and the title was written in large gold letters in the ancient elven language: ‘ _The Secret Forest: an analytical study of forest creatures and their magic_.’ “Damien is from a nearly extinct race of demons.”

“Heavens.” Wendy whispered softly, approaching Henrietta. There was a terrified shadow that fell over her features, but Wendy tried to keep the expression under control while trying to turn the page of the book. “Look at... 160. No, 162, it has a description of the co-relations between forest races.”

Stan frowned, wondering:

“You know the book by heart?”

But the two women were too focused looking for the correct page, studying whatever they were reading at the moment.

Meanwhile, Gregory cleared his throat and sighed, taking a good look at the tense faces of the men around him. He sat down slowly, rubbing his own stiff neck, letting the pain disclose on his face as he did so.

“We don’t have much time.” He began to say, trying to project more authority in his voice. “Token. You'll stay here, responsible for the king’s function, right?” Token just nodded. Gregory started tapping his foot anxiously. “Very well. Stan and I will leave with the army as soon as we receive a response from Kupa Keep about the exchange.”

Christophe frowned and took a slow step forward, keeping his arms folded across his chest, turning his face sideways in a suspicious way, not quite understanding. His eyes shone like those of a lion sighting prey, and Gregory could perfectly feel the Frenchman’s burning look on his face, but refused to face him until the moment when Christophe said:

“Aren’t you forgetting somezing?”

Gregory offered Christophe an almost paternal impatient glare, which concealed an obvious concern - although the blond wasn’t exactly eloquent when it came to verbalizing such feelings. And Christophe wouldn’t interpret anything he could say in a positive way, regardless of how it is put. The glare made the Frenchman’s clenched fist collide on the table, trembling Token’s glass of water. Token covered the glass with his hand and rebuked Christophe with his look, but remained silent.

“Stop it.” Gregory responded with a slightly squeaky voice, losing his composure for a moment. He ran a hand through his hair to smooth them back. “You’re absolutely in no condition to travel. The doctor said so and I’m saying so.”

“I don’t need your permission for sheet.”

“I am a general.” Gregory said louder, getting up from the chair again, pushing it back with his motion.

“Of your army! Do I look like a fucking soldier to you?”

“You always come with this complex of rebel without a cause. Kyle isn’t here to justify your aggression, so you do owe obedience.”

Once Christophe began walking toward Gregory, taking the steps of a raging bull, Stan practically flew from his chair toward the Frenchman to put a hand on his chest, preventing him from reaching the blond who was standing now with a hand on his hip and the other resting on the table, offering a bold and unflinching gaze. But his heart was racing, Stan could see. Gregory wasn’t a weak man by any means, but he was a militant who got along much better in the field of strategy than in arm strength. He trembled with fear for a second, though he hadn’t let anyone notice it, because his chin remained upright.

“Mole.” Stan said in a low tone, as if to be heard only by him. The Frenchman's eyes remained holding that angry glare, teeth showing between his lips as if he were about to roar. “Three days ago you still couldn’t walk without help. The guy opened your head with a freakishly heavy stone, you shouldn’t be forcing yourself. We’re just worried. Maybe... Traveling this far, under these circumstances, is too much for you.”

Christophe pulled Stan’s hand away from his chest and stared at him, He had to looking down to meet those deep dark blue eyes. Stanley's eyes had a calming effect, at least most of the time, but they weren’t enough for Christophe to relax.

“I’ve ‘ad enough of you telling me what I can or can’t take.” Christophe replied in a loud, intimidating tone, very close to the warrior's face.

For a second, Stan had no idea what to say. He stared at the other man with some sorrow in his eyes, brushing his lips in hesitation. And the next second, he was considering himself a lucky man over the relief that came from Wendy’s sudden gasp. The woman brought her hand to her chest and uttered aloud, calling everyone's attention:

“Oh dear lord.”

Henrietta said nothing, just raised her face slowly, pale as a corpse. Wendy turned to her, seeking for a look of understanding, but received nothing in return. So she turned to face the curious men who stopped the conflict to hear some explanation. Token squeezed his hand tightly around his glass of water.

After a dragged sigh, it was Henrietta who closed the book unhurried and cleared her throat, explaining in a calm voice:

“The blue-blood of a sacrificed High Elf corresponds to a century of life for a demon. That’s Damien’s reward.”

“Kyle?” Stan asked before she was even done speaking. His lips remained parted, and his body felt numb. He could literally feel his limbs slowly macerating. The warrior closed his eyelids a bit, his head falling forward before the silence of the two women. “Kyle is his reward?”

Suddenly, he felt a firm, warm hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. He knew it was Christophe. And that hand prevented him from leaning forward and vomiting right there. So he just swallowed.

The only sound that filled the room was the night birds screaming outside, a sound so trivial in the Grove that nobody noticed it anymore. Gregory let his body fall down heavily on his chair, resting his elbows on the table, taking his palm to his jaw, feeling a thin layer of blond beard beginning to grow. He had never been seen with a beard poorly made before. He ran his tongue over his cracked lips, feeling his eyes burning in exhaustion. Things just seemed to get messier and messier.

“Okay. Okay, that's just another reason not to waste time.” Gregory tried to say in a firm voice, that came out full of holes, brushing the tip of the thumb on the index finger as he talked. “Token and Wendy will take care of the kingdom. Henrietta will contact the twins, make sure that they will come with us. I'll send a reply to Cartman’s letter, we’ll play along, as if we believed in his bargaining. But Stan and I will get there with our army before the agreement, so we can catch the humans unprepared. And we will demand that the trade is taken away from the battlefield. I will lead the men, Stan will be there with the twins to make the trade, and we’ll make him understand that he won’t feel or even smell the Stick if we don’t see Kyle safe. If he really wants to feed our king to Damien, he better think twice.”

“In that case... Isn’t more prudent to keep the Stick hidden?” Token asked cautiously.

“No, because if Cartman's plan isn’t trading Kyle for the Stick, he probably has other plans. Maybe he’ll invade our kingdom again to roll each corner. We need to take the Stick off the Grove. There are high chances that...” He hesitated for a moment, glancing at Stanley before continuing. “That he is torturing Kyle to find out where it’s hidden. With witchcraft. The kind of witchcraft that doesn’t allow you to lie. We need to make him understand that he is not in control, that he depends on us to have what he wants. And you.” He pointed to Christophe. “I won’t argue with you any further. But be warned that, if you fall at the wrong time, I will not carry you.”

Christophe looked at him with the same blank expression, not even blinking. Stan turned his face sideways to the Frenchman, without actually meeting his gaze, keeping his focus on the floor.

“I’ll carry you.” Stan whispered to the Mole, loud enough for the others to hear. “If it comes to it.”

“Someone has to talk to Ike.” Wendy said in a small voice.

Stan pressed his thumb on his left eye, grimacing subtly before taking two steps towards the door, pushing Christophe accidentally as he passed by him like a drunken man.

“I’ll talk to him.” The warrior announced before leaving the room.

Christophe rolled his lips into his mouth as if to say something, but held the thought to himself. Soon he followed the warrior without leaving a word to those who stayed.

A few seconds after the door had closed, the glass of water held by Token burst into a shrill sound, scaring everyone except for Token himself, who still held some of the broken glass in his fist, feeling the blood drip between fingers. Water began to spread like a puddle on the map, reaching the edge of the table and dripping on the floor, like the drops of blood from Token’s hand ran down his fist and trickled on the water covering the table surface, diluting in it. Slowly, Token turned to face his own hand, after realizing how wide Wendy’s eyes were.

“I beg your pardon.” He said softly.

* * *

Stan gnawed his fingernails. He had done it his entire life, and as much as Kyle said it was a terrible habit, he never saw harm in it. Now, Stan dug his fingertips on Christophe’s bare arms, so thick and strong, and the warrior felt the flesh on the tip of his fingers burning with the force of his own grip. His wet face was lying against the human’s shoulder, tears streaming down his cheeks and wetting the Mole’s sleeve. The two men stood hidden in the end of the hallway that lead to the stairs curve, Stan cornered like an animal on the wall sobbing while trying to hold the monster which grew inside him and the blood in his eyes that instigated the desire to kill anything, anything at all, because he needed to feel something other than pain. He could have easily hurt himself. Christophe wasn’t embracing him, not really, he only held Stan tightly in his place while the warrior’s body trembled, almost compulsively, his mouth always open sucking the air in groans muffled by the sob tears squeezed tight as his chest at that moment. Too tight to allow air to enter the lungs, too tight for the heart to beat. The pain was physical. At one point, Stan began to shake his head, denying that reality, being crushed by it. He slipped down on the wall, only a bit, but he would have fallen to the ground if Christophe’s firm hands hadn’t been there to hold him, if the body of the man in front didn’t feel bigger than the brick wall he was pressed against, and the Frenchman’s presence was the only thing keeping Stan sane that moment. What escaped from Stan’s lips was a muffled cry against the Frenchman's chest, and he rubbed his face against the scrim of Christophe’s grey shirt, which Stan held onto like his life depended on it, wincing as a child, resembling a young calf nuzzling his dead mother.

“I can’t...” The warrior whispered under his heavy panting, with his trembling and faltering voice, accompanied by a groan of pain. “I can’t live without him.”

Christophe just closed his eyes and wrapped his hand around the back of Stan’s head, pressing the warrior’s face against his chest. He didn’t whisper a word of comfort, he didn’t say that everything would be okay. He was just there. It was all he could do.

The hero had fallen.

* * *

The blond man was dressed as a guard. However, he wasn’t a guard. He went unnoticed by the real night guards, because he wearing the same armor with the same shades of red and gold, and anyone would think of him as one of their own. But the blond man was nothing like those guards. The helmet covered a good part of his face, so they couldn’t identify him, but it isn’t like they were trying too hard to do so under the tortuous torchlight. They were uninterested. They talked about women, what made the blond man roll his eyes when passing by. The outfit was heavy and uncomfortable, making his footsteps loud and metallic. If he hadn’t been disguised, maybe that would have been a problem.

He was heading to a specific cell. The smell of the prisoners’ chambers was dreadful and made the blond man shrink his nose, but he ended up swallowing his dissatisfaction to wear a serene expression when he found the cells watcher, communicating quietly that he had been called to the sawmill and that the blond man would be in his place until he returned. It was just one of the lies that the blond man had told that night. His blue eyes glittered with satisfaction when the guard, without question, stood up from his chair and walked to the road that headed to the sawmill, which was on the other side of the castle grounds, so he would have about 15 minutes before the watcher returned to question why no one had requested his presence at the sawmill. It was so easy to take advantage of the laziness of the Kupa Keep Guards – those guards who the blond man knew very well. They would use any excuse to take a walk in the night, when nothing interesting happened.

When he was left alone, the blond man ran towards the wooden door to spy through the small aperture grilles, standing on tiptoe to look inside the cell. It took him some time to see the little body curled up in the corner on a pile of hay, facing the wall. The blond man felt a pang. The rain clouds cover up the bright light of the full moon shining in the sky, making the cell very dark. The blond man frowned and reached into his pocket for the keys he had stolen from the warehouse half an hour before.

The sound of the key being inserted into the lock made Kyle turn his face towards the door, his green eyes all puffy and bloodshot. He had an open cut on his cheek, caused by the blade of a sword, and the sight of that wounded face startled the blond man, who was now holding the door handle with one hand and taking the other to his own tight chest. Kyle lost his breath. The elf pressed both hands on the filthy dirty floor, crawling like a dog, the elegant face thinner than the last time the blond man had seen him, due the lack of nutrition. Kyle looked sick. The deep dark circles, his dirty curly hair, cheekbones highlighted by thinness, his lips full of wounds, the bruises all over his body, it all made him barely recognizable. But there was an intense glare in his emerald eyes, a hopeful glow.

It took a while until the elf recovered his voice, asking with an almost scared trembling voice:

“K-Kenny?”

The blond man smiled. He stepped forward, taking the key from the lock and closing the door. He licked his lips eagerly, and then took quick steps toward the elf, kneeling right next to him. Kyle narrowed his eyes, which were irritated by the illumination that came out from the open door a few moments before. He still couldn’t see properly.

“I'm sorry, sweetie.” The blond man whispered, reaching out to try to touch the elf’s wounded face.

But Kyle, like a wild animal, backed into the corner of the wall, pressing his back against it as if he was trying to pass through bricks. The glow faded and his eyelids opened, his gorgeous green eyes widening, suddenly contracting the muscles of the face while shaking with weakness. His eyes soon narrowed in distrust.

“Lady McCormick?” Kyle asked quietly, taking a hand to his own throat full of bruises.

Butters kept his eyes on the High elf’s small hand. He parted his lips once he realized that Kyle’s long fingernails had been pulled, one by one, leaving only the exposed and bloodied flesh underneath. Butters took his hand to cover his mouth, giving Kyle a look that felt so familiar to the elf, because that's exactly how his mother, Sheila Broflovski, looked at him when he got hurt playing in the courtyard. He covered his right hand with his left one, which still had all nails intact, as if he was ashamed, slowly lowering both hands to hide them.

The man before him had the features of Kenny McCormick, so similar that it was disturbing, and the vision made the elf shrink his nose to hold back a bitter cry. It was hard to contain his tears at this point, but held firmly. Looking closely, he could see that Butters had more delicate features, but his eyes were exactly like Kenny’s.

The thing Kyle wanted the most at that moment was to be looked by those immensely blue eyes one more time, just once. Butters made him feel like Kenny was there again. But it wasn’t the first time Kyle had had that feeling; he was seeing Kenny everywhere since it had happened. That bright white smile that could have seduced anyone, even a cow, if Kenny really wanted to. That dirty blond hair falling on his face, and the way Kenny blew it off, laughing so loud and saying that even his hair was wild. He missed Kenny’s warm hands. His thick tongue and the amazing things he knew how to do with it. His tenderness and his strength. His energy, his contagious comic relief, his effort to say kind things even when he didn’t know how to. Kyle would give anything to see him again.

“Your Grace...” Butters whispered, raising his hand covered by a glove, offering a brief caress on Kyle’s thin arm. The elf kept his face turned aside, watching him carefully without moving a muscle. “Don’t be afraid of me.”

“What is...? What do you want?”

“I had to see if you were alright.” Butters replied, talking even lower now, leaning forward, coming closer to him. “What has that monster done to you?”

Kyle shivered. He was almost naked. Butters really wanted to bring something for him to wear, but if any of the guards saw that, it could cause difficulties for both the elf and the plan. The response was a shake of head, while the redhead tried to keep himself under control, huddled against the cold wall.

“You poor thing. You don’t deserve any of this. I don’t have much time. But know one thing.” The gloved hand rose to Kyle’s face, and the elf didn’t fight it, allowing Butters’ fingers to touch his cut cheek. “I'll get you out of here, I swear. I came to reassure you, Your Majesty.”

A curious gleam came into the elf’s eyes. He lifted his chin, exposing his long pale neck with purple and green bruises, embracing his own torso, swallowing hard.

“Why?” He asked in a bitter voice, incredulous.

“There are so many things you will not understand yet, Your Grace... But please, don’t cry. Wait for me tomorrow. I have a plan.”

As much as the elf wanted to spit in the face of the man in front of him, ignoring all his sweetness, not believing a single word he had said, and as much as he wanted to punish Butters for looking so much like the ghost that Kyle saw every day inside his head, he just closed his wet eyes and nodded. That wasn’t the rock bottom because he hadn’t lost hope yet. And there was nothing that the princess could do that was worse than what he was already living. Kyle hadn’t lost the war yet.

A sound in the hallway made Butters stand up, startled. A voice came from afar:

“Who is taking care of the inmates?”

“I am, sir!” Butters replied from inside, in such a manly and serious tone that it didn’t sound like the same person with whom Kyle had spoken a few seconds before. Because the person with whom he had spoken was Marjorine. Butters offered the High Elf a long look, whispering as low as possible. “Wait for me.”

The blond man left the cell and went back to lock it, explaining to the jailer that he had gotten in to teach the elf a lesson, since he wouldn’t stop crying and it was getting on his nerves. The jailer looked at Butters very closely, up and down, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

And outside, the rain fell.


	21. Ride for the king

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this is awkward. How long has it been? I am so sorry, guys. I know my excuses mean nothing to those of you who want to know what the hell happens next, so I won’t even try to justify my disappearance. And if anyone is still reading this story, thank you SO much for not giving up on it. I promise I won’t take a billion years to post the next chapter. Oh, and I’ve also started a new Style/Tophlovski fanfic, which is highly irresponsible of me, but I couldn’t help it. That should be around here anytime soon, if you’re into that. I’ll shut up now. Hope you enjoy!

Terrance and Phillip were very hard to understand. But to understand _why_ they were so hard to understand, you’d need to visit a land not so far away from Zaron, about 1406.83 miles up north, where it snows all year and everything is white. The land was divided by turf wars over millennia, and then fragmented between the aboriginal tribes and the civilian population, which constituted the realm, expelling the natives for being "too wild" for civic coexistence. There was the Due tribe, one of the oldest, highlighted by a genetic mutation that caused every pregnancy to generate identical twins. It was common sense that such mutation was related to magic, perhaps dark magic, especially because of the curious interaction between two twins born in Due. Not only their features would be identical, but there would also be an unbreakable telekinetic bond for as long as they lived. It was a mandatory feature that Due twins had different hair colors and the same eye color, but in the case of Terrance and Phillip, something extraordinary happened. Something unheard of for those people. Terrance was born with very dark hair and a pair of eyes so black that no one could tell the difference between his iris and his pupils. Phillip, on the other hand, was born with blond hair, almost white platinum blonde, and a pair of eyes bluer than the sky itself. Everyone thought that they had been cursed, or that there was some disastrous disconnect between the two brothers, but time proved just the opposite; their bond was the stronger ever known by the Due tribe.

The twins had left their homeland to study magic in Zaron, settling inside one of the Twin Mountains’ caves in the Elven Grove. It took years for the elves discovered their presence, and when they did, the king summoned Terrance and Phillip to the palace as prisoners. The king’s younger son, born in the civilized region of Canada, was extremely ill at the time. Somehow, Terrance and Phillip felt the child’s condition as soon as they were placed before Gerald Broflovski, and the words that saved both of them a bit of a headache were "we can save him," said in perfect conjunction between their voices, without a vowel out of tune. It was as if the intonation of their voices formed a single one. The wizards did not need to explain to whom they were referring, or how they had found out about the sick prince. Gerald didn’t want to know. Against Sheila’s scandalous protests, he consented the twins to take a look at Ike, under the vague promise that they could do something about his illness. That was the precise moment when the trust had been established between the Mountain Twins and the High Elf’s family.

Now there they were, both men of exactly the same height, standing in the Elven Castle’s entrance hall once again, one beside the other, like a pair of vessels whose position was meticulously calculated. When a face turned to the left, the other did the same, both pairs of eyes full of curiosity and wonder. Terrance clutched between his fingers a piece of crumpled silk paper, which he had gotten from the table in the parlor where they had been waiting just a few minutes before; it was a tiny map drawn with charcoal, something the twins made together in only 74 seconds. There was a little discussion about who would hold the map, but Phillip gave up when he heard the sound of Henrietta’s high heels echoing across the double door, which burst open, revealing a woman's voluptuous figure. Only her silhouette was visible, given the intense light that came from behind her.

“Come in.” She said in a dry voice.

The twins entered a room that was unusually clear, mistreating the corneas of those creatures who were used to the back of a cave and the protection of trees’ shades when it was necessary to go out. The strong lighting was due to the huge windows that took up an entire wall. There was a long table like nothing the twins had ever seen before, covered with a velvet green towel, like grass itself, and Phillip reached out to touch the fabric, but Terrance stopped him with a loud slap on his brother’s wrist, never needing to turn around and look; he knew exactly where to hit. Philip made no sound and his expression did not change, but the hand immediately replied as if it had a life of its own, colliding its back against Terrance’s belly. The dark-haired twin also didn’t react.

Black dressed from head to toe, as she had been doing in the past recent days, Henrietta raised an eyebrow. She had always been a woman in black, so you would need to watch it very closely to notice that the nuances of purple, red, wine and navy had disappeared from her clothes. Terrance and Phillip did notice it, although they hadn’t seen the woman more than two or three times before. They were in agreement that Henrietta was scary enough for them not to say anything, at least as long it was as possible to avoid. There was another figure in the corner, which, although unknown, was equally daunting; a French human with his arms crossed on his chest, his head wounded and his eyes bloodshot. Terrance and Phillip locked the two pairs of eyes staring at the man, their wrinkled identical mouths, projecting curious frowns, sensing Christophe’s oscillating energy.

The twins suddenly held hands, the creased piece of paper pressed between their palms. It was impossible to define which of the two had taken the initiative, since both hands moved exactly the same moment, and fingers intertwined as if they belonged to the same being, knowing the other by heart.

“Listen, creatures.” Henrietta said, firmly this time. “We must get into an agreement. You...” Her lips sealed to realize that she didn’t have the twins’ attention. She snapped his fingers in front of their faces, leaning on the table with her free hand. Terrance and Phillip were still watching Christophe. “Hey. Are you listening?”

Phillip used his left hand to poke brother’s stomach, whispering aloud:

“I believe she is speaking to us.”

“Is she speaking to us?”

“I do believe so, Terrance, yes I do.”

“Oh well. Who?”

At some point, their pupils finally moved. Henrietta and Christophe exchanged a brief and impatient look and he made a gesture of encouragement for her to take the heavy book of indigo magic, lifting it foot above the table before dropping it, emitting a loud noise that caught the twins’ attention. The scare made them jump in a completely harmonic and cohesive motion, jumping the same height and landing in the same calculated instant. Phillip leaned to the side, keeping his neck strangely static, not moving it a single inch.

“Told you she was talking to us.”

“Oh, yes, you certainly did.”

Christophe covered his face with his hand and sighed.

“Just pay attention, you...” Henrietta started, but then contained the words with a disturbing grimace, frown lines very marked in the light of stained glass. “Do you understand that you live on our property, in our forest, in exchange for something? Do you understand that you are our allies?”

The twins looked at each other.

“She thinks we're morons.” Terrance whispered to his brother in the same loud voice used before.

“Oh, she certainly does!” Phillip agreed.

“It does not matter what I think.” Henrietta replied, not bothering to deny it. “It is important to understand what your responsibility is. I will not send the prince and heir to the throne on a trip with you two if I'm not absolutely sure that you will do your part. Do you even know what that is?”

“Protecting the Stick.” They both answered simultaneously, their voices condensed into one, as two parts of the same song. Separately, their voices were sharp, strange and unpleasant. But together, in harmony, they were delightful to the ears.

“Right.” She said, almost hesitantly surprise, crossing her arms.

“And what do we get in return?” Terrance asked, finally looking at the woman.

“Yeah! What do we get in return?”

“You freaks already collect your reward for years, living in our forest. What else do you expect from us?”

When Henrietta was preparing for a long and thorough discussion that she was pretty sure would just walk in circles, something stronger seemed to grab the attention of the two dispersed men. It was like some buzz had burst their eardrums, but they were the only ones able to hear it, while all the other presents in the lobby puckered brows in question. The buzz seemed to come directly from Henrietta, by the way the twins approached her - still holding hands, taking frighteningly synchronized steps - and Christophe's hand instinctively went to the belt where the knife was stuck, getting in a predatory position in case he had to act fast. However, there was no need. The twins’ steps decreased when they got close enough, their thin bodies leaned forward in combination and their nostrils flared, smelling Henrietta as trained dogs would. She instinctively took a step back and put her hand on her stomach. Perhaps it was her nature manifesting the extraordinary need to think about the fetus growing within her long before she thought about her own safety (although she wasn’t in real danger at the moment, she understood that), but something inside Henrietta told her that they were interested in her child, not in her properly.

She was right.

Phillip raised his free hand to touch her belly, his eyes shining with the fascination of a child, but Terrance slapped him hard before his brother could reach the goal. They both looked at each other as if contemplating their own image in a mirror. Phillip responded with a pinch, and Terrance corresponded with a stomp on the foot, but soon they were straightened and looking at Henrietta like two naughty children who are about to get an earful. She was taken by a strange feeling of affection for the innocence in the two creatures’ eyes. She felt nauseous.

“Did you see that?” Terrance asked his brother, but his eyes never left Henrietta’s stomach.

“I certainly did, yes sir, yes I did.” Phillip replied, nodding his head.

“Should we ask?”

“Why, and why not?”

“Let's ask.”

Henrietta turned toward Christophe, whose gaze wandered between her and the twins, his thick eyebrows furrowed in a comical expression of disagreement. But no one smiled. When she turned back to face them, her face was wearing that ordinary impatience again. She clutched her waist.

“What the hell are talking about, you freaks?”

Both answered in a single, cohesive voice:

“They're twins.”

“What?”

“Inside you.” The dual voice replied casually. “They are twins.”

It took Henrietta all her strength not to cover her belly with her hand one more time. She lifted her chin in serene curiosity, moistening the red stained lips, slipping her tongue over her teeth.

“What do you know about that?”

“We’ll help you.” Terrance suddenly said, in a tone of brilliance, as if he had just discovered fire. “If you give us one!”

“Yes, yes!” Phillip agreed, releasing his brother's hand to join his palms in front of his face. “Give us one!”

Her lips were split, incredulous.

She could only move when Terrance raised his hand, that devilishly thin hand, whose dirty fingers were crooked and bony enough to be associated with a demon, so pale, the nails so dark. The hand approached the woman's stomach, which already had an small bulge that was almost imperceptible to the eyes, but not for the twins’, who looked as if they could see right through her flesh. Their pupils dilated simultaneously and their thin lips formed a smirk, contrasting with the static eyes as if that was all that composed their faces: big eyes and mouth full of yellow teeth sprouted between their lips, making their smiles almost sickly. Instinctively, Henrietta stepped back and slammed in the approaching hand.

“Do not come near me, you beast!”

Christophe, who seemed on guard waiting for a signal to act, didn’t even step forward. He looked paralyzed. There was nothing in his expression, no twinkle in his eyes, no emotion transpiring the rough lines of the face. Perhaps he just knew that the twins were more afraid of Henrietta than otherwise. He was talented in smelling fear.

Terrance, on the other hand, didn’t seem offended or bothered by the woman’s reaction. Phillip laid his head to the side, confused, and his brother did the same to the opposite side, a few seconds later. He could have done it exactly the same time, if he had wanted to.

“Bradley is a beautiful name. Do not you think it’s a beautiful name, Terrance?”

“Oh, yes, a lovely name! Undoubtedly a beautiful name.”

The mention of her brother’s name was like a punch in the stomach. Henrietta replied with a grimace, as if she was swallowed her own vomit.

“What do you know about Bradley?” She asked weakly.

“That’s the name of your baby.” Phillip explained. His eyes remained static, the smile remained sick. “The blond one!”

Terrance grabbed his brother's arm, looking at him with eyes full of something that, later, Henrietta would identify as love. Something had changed inside her, making so natural for her to recognize the love between two people who are family. It had never seemed important before. It was incredible. Even a moment before Terrance’s fingers touched his arm, Phillip was already staring back, sensing his movement.

A shadow suddenly covered their eyes.

“Christophe.” Terrance whispered, turning to Henrietta.

She glanced back, where the French man was taking a cigarette to his mouth, reaching into his pocket for a match to light it. His eyes briefly rose in curiosity, but he didn’t seem as interested as you'd expect, after having his name mentioned by those intriguing fellows.

“What?”

“That’ll be the name of the baby with dark hair. Black hair like yours.”

“And why would I call him Christophe?”

“Well, and how are we supposed to know? You’re the one who’s naming him!” Phillip exclaimed.

Henrietta's stomach lurched at the thought. With all that had happened in the last days, she hadn’t had time to think about the little creature that was developing in her womb. She hadn’t thought of names, much less thought about the possibility of having two babies instead of one. It was impossible to banish the idea that there was a piece of Michael inside her, which immediately cheered her heart and sucked the air out of her lungs. Henrietta didn’t even like kids. But something that flowed in her veins was strong enough to want to kill those two creatures in front of her for the simple intention of taking her child away. Her heart was throbbing. It was the first time that she thought about her baby as a child. She tried not to picture his face, in case it was a boy, with Michael’s black hair and dark eyes. Or blond hair, such as Bradley. Her sweet, innocent Bradley.

She looked back at Christophe. That brute and peaceful face, behind the bluish dancing smoke of his cigarette, looked a few years older. How she longed for a cigarette at that moment.

“Look, little pests. I don’t want to hear another word about it. We have work to do. Christophe, please go get Ike. You morons will accompany him. Your reward is to keep your balls, because you are annoying me profoundly.”

The twins laughed.

. . .

“I can go along.” Christophe said for the third time, each word more insistent than the last. Now, he and Henrietta were alone in the main lobby.

“No. There’s no how. You’re still too weak. You want to be conscious and stand up alone when they get Kyle back, don’t you?”

There was something sweet in her voice. The man snorted.

“Someone needs to go with ‘zem.”

“I know. But Gregory is tough, there are rules against that sort of thing. Nobody else is supposed to see the Stick.”

“Fuck it. I don’t like zis sheet. We are putting too much in zeir hands. Zey are like two retarded children, for fuck’s sake.”

“I know it's hard to believe, but they are exceptional. They may already know where the Stick is without anyone telling them. They see everything.”

Henrietta's expression was hard to face. Many strong people were collapsing right before his eyes, and Christophe felt that he would be next. A part of him wanted to comfort her, to say something deep and clever about the twins’ forethoughts, but that broad and wide lobby seemed too exposed, little intimate, and neither one of them would feel comfortable if he tried to get closer. So, he took a cigarette from his pocket and handed it to her. Henrietta refused it, and he was glad she did.

. . .

He had done everything he was told to. Things weren’t supposed to have gone that wrong.

Kyle had never been too good in following orders, that was true, but that night was different in every aspect. Despite Marjorine’s promise of showing up the next night, it took the princess three more days to actually come to him with a plan. It wasn’t a complicated one, in fact, they just had to be fast and Kyle couldn’t let himself get distracted with the possibility of finding Eric Cartman’s bedroom to murder him in his sleep. That was the most throbbing thought on his mind, along with other obscure ideas that he constantly tried to drive off his brain as he laid on the cold dirty floor of his cell, emerged in darkness, barely dressed, trying to remind himself of who he was, the life he had outside those walls. It was nearly impossible. The loud noise of heavy rain and wind outside made him feel even smaller, shrinking in fetal position and hugging his knees, trembling like a boy who had lost his mother. It was easier to be fragile when there was no one around to see him crumbling in pieces. His face was always pressed against the floor, his hair was always fallen over his eyes (although it had been cut a few days before, he wasn’t sure when), to the point where Kyle was getting used to that condition, forgetting that he had ever been anything else. It was almost easy to become just a piece of meat on the floor, left behind by someone who didn’t want it anymore.

But he hadn’t vanished yet. His eyes still sparkled. Cartman’s words still echoed in his skull, repeatedly, like fuel to a growing fire. Sometimes, Kyle even caught himself moving his lips to whisper such words, staring to the void of his cell, tears running down his cheeks and he didn’t even realize it until his eyes were burning. But he didn’t cry for Cartman, no, not ever. After Marjorine’s visit, seeing Kenny become a sort of habit. He was absolutely sure that he was losing his mind, diving deeper in his own insanity, but it made him numb, and that was more than Kyle could ask for. Kenny’s face looked even younger than he remembered (and Lord, how hard he was trying not to forget what that face looked like), his smile so boyish and bright, lightning up the whole room, saying things that only Kenny would.

“ _C’mon, kitty, you’re stronger than this_ ”, Kyle would hear him say inside his brain, “ _I can’t kill that motherfucker for you, but I swear I would. You don’t need me for anything, do you?_ ”

Sometimes it helped. Sometimes he would tell Kenny to shut up.

When his eyes were used to the darkness and he was coming in terms with the idea of spending the rest of his days in there, suddenly there was a light. Kyle literally thought it would blind him, the strong light that came from the corridor when Marjorine opened the door of his cell, once again dressed as a male guard. Kyle noticed how awkwardly she walked when she wore that heavy armor, and in any other situation, it would have made him smile. But he couldn’t bring himself to do so when Marjorine nervously whispered orders that he should follow in about ten minutes. She told him she had put a glamour on every guard of the wing B, which Kyle should cross until he got to the huge green double door and got to the princess’s bedroom. She had something important to do and thought it would be faster and safer if Kyle went by himself. She gave him new clothes and asked him to wait a few minutes to give her enough time to check if everyone was indeed sleeping.

He had though that his heart would be racing and that he would be scared to death of being caught. It would be unfair to say that he had nothing to lose; he had his little brother, he had Stanley, he had his realm and the war he was not yet lost. But for some reason, none of it felt important enough to make him frightened by the possibility of dying. He put on the clothes Marjorine had given him after she left, and the cotton felt nice and loose against his sore skin. He had never loved cotton so much in his life.

Barefoot, he peeked to take a look at the snoring guard before moving any forward, taking light and careful steps as if he could actually wake the man up from the spell just by walking too loudly. It was silly. The man didn’t seem to move a muscle. Kyle slowly walked out of his cell, taking a moment to stop in front of the next entrance, the block in which Kenny had been locked up when they arrived in Kupa Keep. Kyle tried to resist the temptation of approaching the door, standing on tiptoe to see through the small opening that revealed a dirty empty room. He didn’t know why he suddenly felt so disappointed.

When the sleeping guard stirred, Kyle broke out of his trance and ran.

He followed the first staircase and came out on a large salon with linoleum floor that reflected every furniture, statue and object in the room. It was so wide and it had so many doors that Kyle started to get uneasy, feeling too exposed, like anyone could come in at any second. He looked for a staircase; there were two, one on each side of the salon. Marjorine had told him to go for the one on the left, with red carpet. The elf immediately ran up.

He had no idea how neurotic Cartman could be about his security, but the amount of guards lying on the floor was intimidating, especially when it came to the narrow hall that would lead him to Wing B, according to Marjorine’s instructions. It had to be it, the passage with a tall lion statue in the front. Kyle penetrated the dark hall with easy steps and the adrenaline finally started to hit him, as he tried to find clear spaces between the bodies on the floor, fantasizing that all of the sudden one of those men would grab his ankle. It was a terrible moment to doubt Marjorine’s words, although he still didn’t understand why she would help him in the first place. That corridor was longer than Kyle had hoped it would be. He could feel those human men breathing like wild animals, like he had just entered a pit of lions, or dragons, as told in one of his folk’s stories.

But he came out on the other side, alive and well, or as well as he could be. The thin layer of hair that covered his leg was up, perhaps because of the awful cold that came under his garment. The princess had given him a long gown with nothing to put underneath, but the material was much thicker than what he had been wearing for weeks. The weak light of the torches made the marks on his skin more visible, and they were uglier than he had thought, but there was no time to stop and analyze such things. He started to walk faster. For a while, there were no guards in sight, as he ran through the hallway that had huge paintings of the human king along both walls, one more majestic than the previous. The carpet felt nice under Kyle’s feet.

There was the green door. He was almost there. Kyle knew he wouldn’t be safe once he got inside that room, there was still a million things that could go wrong, but he needed a victory. A small victory, something, anything he could celebrate, he needed it so badly.

He had done everything Marjorine told him to do. Everything he was supposed to. He was fast, quiet and attentive; he followed the right way and didn’t let anyone see him. And he was almost there.

But Baahir came out of nowhere. And as soon as Kyle stood before the green double door, reaching for the doorknob, those huge arms that he was so familiar with, that now felt hard as a brick, grabbed him harshly from behind. There was no time to react. Kyle was pushed against the man who looked as tall as a wall, Baahir’s strong hand covered his mouth and nose to the point where he thought he wouldn’t ever be able to breathe again, and at that moment Kyle realized just how much he still had to lose.

Baahir’s breath was intense against his ear, his hoarse voice whispering in an almost gentle tone:

“There you are.”

. . .

 

There were twelve rows of exactly eighty elves in each, all clad in wood armors carved with a circle and a rose in the center; its ramifications of thorny branches were harnessed to the circle. They all wore helmets, the only part of their apparel that was made of iron, since the elves did not like the weight. They were fast, lightweight, agile. The last thirty elves of each row were the archers, who held the carefully carved arches in tribal designs of the ancient people, a beautiful sequence of curves that surrounded the entire timber of each arc as the movement of a climbing plant. They carried bags on their bag to hold the arrows, making it easy to grab them in a quick move. The vast majority of them had smooth and long hair, as was the habit of the Elven soldiers, precisely the opposite of humans, who kept their hair short for battle. This made the identification on the battlefield much easier, although that wasn’t the main reason why the elves soldiers did not cut their hair: it was the symbol of their strength. The next thirty men each row fought with their spears and shields craft, and knocked them hard on the ground while emitting the battle cry to the general sign. The nine hundred sixty voices echoed in the open skies, which were greenish blue, a color that only happened in the winter, with a horizon fading into a celestial blue common of sunny days. It was not a sunny day.

The first twenty men from each row mounted on horses and kept their swords in their scabbards. They were the only ones who had their heads covered with red mantles, the necks wrapped by green scarves, the crown coat emblazoned on their chests. The same coat of arms that was stamped on Stanley Marsh’s pectoral as he stood ahead of all his army, facing them. He'd be lying if he said that he knew every one of those faces, but it was as if he could see them one by one at that moment. Stan had never been very good with words, he had never had much taste or interest in them, but it was another story when he was right before his army. That morning in particular, in the biting cold, before the twelve rows of towering elves before sunrise, the words burned in his throat as reflux.

Gregory was about three feet away from him, on his golden steed, his face frozen in a rigid expression of sorrow and strength mixed up. He offered a brief look of encouragement, and Stan began:

“My friends.” He paused briefly to lick his chapped lips. “I won’t ask you not to fear. I have no right. For in dark times, the fear seems to be your only company. Fear of failing your fellow brothers, fear of failing oneself, fear of death. There is nothing wrong with fear, as long as it does not win the outrage, the fury, the courage that brought each one of you here. You are not ordinary, you are the bravest elves that exist. You are good-hearted, righteous, true, as your vows affirm, and something has been taken from you. The one who consecrated you with the noble titles that you carry today, the one who does not use you, his soldiers, as puppets. The one who kept the peace in our kingdom, even in the darkest period, and has visited each rite of passage of your comrades in arms who were lost along the way. He who keeps your family safe, your food at the table, who cares for his people without making difference between the peasant and the noble.”

Stan's eyes roamed the different faces, the entire range of skin colors and hair and eyes, all shapes of nose, mouth and jaw, from the highest to the lowest elf, analyzing even the animals upon which they rode. One of the riders was teary-eyed, slightly wrinkling his nose as if he was in pain, trying not to cry, but a tear was already running down his cheek. Stan would remember to tell that boy later that there was no shame in crying.

He took a breath.

“The humans believe they have an advantage over us. They took advantage of our sympathetic nature to try to disrupt our realm, but we are not made only of a king. Kyle has always reminded us of that. We are the kingdom. Each of you is the kingdom. And this kingdom will not be destroyed and will not yield to any blackmail, that is not the way we fight. We’ll show them.” The clang of Stan’s sword could be heard from a distance as he drew from its sheath and lifted it in the air with pride, causing Gregory’s horse to take a step back, but the blond held tight on the animal’s reins. “Can you hear me?!”

The chant broke out, nine hundred and sixty voices in chorus, scaring the forest birds.

“The humans will not take your lives. They will not take anything else from us.”

Nine hundred and sixty voices shouted.

“And we will bring our king back home.”

Nine hundred and sixty-one voices chanted, because Gregory had joined the chorus.

“Today” Stan said, projecting his so strong and loud that it reached the ear of the last archer in the last row. “We ride.”


	22. Kind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, have you guys been missing someone? I sure have.

“I'm sorry, Your Majesty. I didn't mean to scare you.”

Kyle shook his head, still disturbed by the whole situation, using his hand to cover his eyes and rub them, massaging his temples right after, relieving the headache that took place. He was sitting in a peach color armchair, huge and soft, that accommodated his body amid delightfully white silk pillows. He put one of the pillows on his lap to hold it against his chest, lowering the gaze to Baahir's feet. The other man was leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the room. Baahir was a tall fellow with dark skin and curly black hair, now wearing the same red headband which covered his forehead, just like he had wore it on the night he visited the High Elf's room. He was a handsome man, no doubt about it, especially in the eyes of an elf who was not used to the human male's structure (always coarser, larger, thicker) of body and face. Baahir was exotic even for a human in Zaron because he had come from the East. His hair was long, the curls went down his neck, stubble on his face, a protruding squared nose that graced very well with the manly jaw, thick lips in a more grayish tone than his golden brown skin. He wore the coat crown of Kupa Keep in blue cloth wrapped around his torso, and below, only a gray tank top that left his strong arms on display. 

The human touched his chest, covering the silver lions on his clothing, bending the torso forward. 

“I beg your pardon.” 

“There is no need. I just don't understand.” Kyle said in a dull voice, looking up to face him. He pressed the pad in his hands. “It makes no sense. Why would you want to help me if you are the one who brought me here in the first place?” 

“It was the king who brought you here, sir, I just... I'm only his hands.” Baahir explained, his voice low and husky laden with a heavy accent, clearing his throat. “See, we would not be of great help if the king threw us in a cell too. I had to obey my orders.” 

“Who's _we_?”

“Me and Princess McCormick.” The man said, getting away from the wall, keeping his hand on the chest, smoothing the fabric. He continued, almost whispering. “There is no one else involved. The walls have ears.” 

“And why are you doing this?” 

The man smiled as if it were obvious. 

“For the same reason Kenny did all the stupidities that he did.” 

Kyle frowned in suspicion when Baahir began to approach, although he had only taken three steps. The elf slipped his fingers through the cold silk fabric pad, turning to face the large window behind the chair, through which it was possible to observe the intensity of the falling rain. Thunder burst through the air, casting a glow around the room that was dimly lit by torches.

“I can-not believe it. You allowed the most innocent person in this world to be impaled right in front of you” The elf said bitterly. “And Christophe...” The voice failed. Kyle rubbed his face with one hand. “Heavens, is he alive? What happened to him?” 

Baahir stared with ruefully eyes. He then shrugged, not with indifference; genuinely not knowing the answer to that. 

“The French guy? Well, I didn't see it. All I know is that Clyde... He never returned. But I can not say what happened to them.” A long pause. Kyle didn't return the look. “I'm very sorry about your friend.” 

They were locked in Lady McCormick's bedroom, a very reassuring environment with its pastel colors and feminine ornaments, delicate cloths, white figurines, yellow flowers that from time to time made Baahir sneeze. A large fire was lit, providing heat to their bodies; the creaking of the wood filled the silence when it was established. Still there was an estrangement between them after Baahir held the elf from behind and covered his mouth so he would not scream, pushing him into the room, trying to explain his good intentions. Once he let the elf go, Kyle ran to the fireplace and grabbed the fireplace iron tool used to stir the firewood, pointing it at Baahir's neck. If he was going to hell, he's sure drag that motherfucker with him. Kyle was ready to do with him what had been done with Kenny. He shuddered at the memory of the tip of the spear tearing the flesh of the blonde's neck, all the blood that spurted and covered the king from head to toe. The few seconds remembering the time he had spent clutching Kenny's lifeless body, both on the floor, his head lying on the blond's chest in the vain hope of hearing a beat, was seized when Baahir mobilized him, taking advantage of his fragility. It took more than ten minutes to make Kyle understand that he did not intend to hurt him, because the redhead thrashed as if nearing a psychotic attack. Baahir didn't allow him to make noise. The elf would be grateful for that, basically, because during those ten minutes he was completely out of it, without any sense of who or where he was. 

Baahir managed to explain to him, holding Kyle gently against the cold porcelain floor, that he was a friend. That was the gist of what he said. Kyle didn't believe him, just like he hadn't believed the Princess, but what choice did he have? He was now a wreck of that fine, graceful, bright, respected creature who reigned from a majestic castle in a forest full of enchanted wights. He was nothing now. He was in the land of humans, where torture was the law, where everything you love is ripped off like your pelt from the flesh and there's nothing you can do about it. His dirty feet were bare, and so was his legs, his hands had no nails, his back was marked by deep cuts from Cartman's lashes. He was absolutely sure that the king hadn't been the one who whipped his back – Kyle was blindfolded at the moment – because, as Baahir said, Cartman had other hands to do the dirty work for him. But Cartman was present when it happened and his laughter echoed off the high walls of the catacomb and invaded Kyle's ears, penetrating the bottom of the brain and remaining there, going round and round in his ears as tinnitus that never ceases. That laugh... It was so happy, full of delight, cheerful even. It was an almost sexual pleasure for Eric Cartman, it could be perceived in his laughter. 

Kyle snorted, something he did a lot in the past few weeks. Perhaps he had contracted some lung disease. The elf bowed his head, running his hand through the top of the head, feeling the unclean red hair that fell powerless, lifeless, feeling the bare surface where some tussocks of his hair had been uprooted. The locks were so different from the orange-gold curls that once shone like metal in the sun, contrasting with the cheeks that used to be rosy and the teeth that used to be white. It was so easy to forget who he was in given conditions. 

A few minutes later, with both men steeped in silence, never exchanging glances - Baahir was focused in guarding the door, arms crossed, because his task was to withdraw the knife kept in his pocket and stuck it in the neck of any creature who came through that entrance - Marjorine announced her arrival with a whistle before turning the knob. She was no longer dressed as a boy, but now she looked more like a poor ugly peasant, with long golden hair tied in a bun on the top of her head, wearing a very simple blue dress with a few modest details of gray income, her face washed and cleand, no garnish wathsoever. She didn't look like a man in a dress, perhaps because she was not really a man, just a woman who was born in the wrong body. 

Her smile shone in the dark room. 

“You made it!” She said with a sigh, uniting her hands. 

Kyle just stared blankly, watching Baahir take his hand to Marjorine's waist, the look that the two humans exchanged. And he understood it. 

“Come on.” She whispered, turning back to the elf. “It's time.” 

* * *

The forest was dark and the rain was cruel. The three shadows hastily crossed the covered garden, Marjorine few steps forward, holding a cloth bag to her chest, her flowing dress lifted by the wind as she ran, following her like a cloak. Looking back from time to time, as Baahir always stood next to Kyle, because he was under the impression that his thin legs would break at any moment if they were pushed to the limit. They could hear noises, noises of some remote fuss in the distance, but it all happened inside the castle due to the torrential rain that punished Kupa Keep. When they began to approach the forest, Kyle's bare feet sank in the mud and he could barely run. 

“Hurry, give him your shoes” Marjorine shouted to Baahir under the thunderous noise of the rain that was now falling directly on them, making the exposed skin tingle. 

Baahir obeyed immediately, as he always did. The shoes were too big for Kyle's small feet, not making it all that easier to walk, but he was not about to complain. He could hardly absorb what was happening; the mere feeling of the rain on his skin, the cold wind blowing, the sounds and smells of the forest that only elves could recognize, the wet earth, the moon, _freedom_. He could run, and that was enough. There was a faint smile on his face that overcame the dread, the expectation, the possibility of what would come next. It did not matter. For now, he was in a forest, he could run. That was enough. 

There was a moment when Baahir grabbed his arm, when Kyle's knees failed before his excitement. He was weak, but he'd forgotten the hunger, the corrosive stomach pain, all because of that breath of freedom. For a few seconds, he broke down all the barriers carefully constructed to deal with those two people who, for whatever reason, seemed to want to help him. Only when they reached the destination in the depths of the forest is that Kyle realized where he was. There were two horses tied to a tree, sealed and ready to leave, one of them with its hooves as muddy as Kyle's feet. The tree's huge leaves and thick branches protected the animals from the rain, but they were still wet. 

“Wait.” Kyle said, approaching the princess so she could hear him under the falling rain. “Where are we going?” 

Marjorine looked closely, water pouring down her face, her tied soaked hair dripping continuously, with a few blond strands escaping and coming down wavy, sticking on her damp skin. Her blue eyes sparkled, even in the dark, just like Kenny's. 

“The elves are traveling for the battle. They must arrive at the Tiger Hill in a week, that's where Baahir will take you. It's far, but you'll manage.” 

“Then why are you coming with us?” 

She smiled.

“We'll make a quick stop before you go.”

* * *

The old McCormick house was a forgotten place on the edge of the earth, a very small residence located in Kupa Keep's most miserable street where no outsider dared to step foot on. Butters was no outsider, but Marjorine somewhat was. That's why she always chose the middle of the night as the best time to get back whenever she had to (or simply wanted to). It was hard to see the neighbourhood houses under so much rain, but Kyle's eyes were far more accurate in comparison with the human ones and they captured enough to understand that most of them were falling apart. He didn't know exactly what the three of them were doing in a place like that.

It was only when they approached the right house – green, tiny, abandoned – that Kyle recognized the description given by Kenny when they used to lay on bed and talk for hours. The blond had told him about the thin tree with a tire swing, the ugly grass now mixed with mud where he loved to roll around with Kevin, pretending that they were soldiers on a trincheira. It was his home. Kyle stopped walking before they passed the destroyed gate, staring at the construction for five seconds or so, managing to get out of his trance to follow behind Marjorine and her beloved Baahir.

They went inside. It was dark and cold, but being covered from the rain was a relief, even though there was nothing cozy about that place. The thunder made the room visible for a split of second, revealing very little furniture covered by sheets that had once been white and tones of dust that made it clear: no one had been there in years. If it hadn't been so goddamn dark, Kyle'd have probably seen the plate of food on the coffee table and the pair of dirty shoes right next to the door which said otherwise. It didn't take him long, however, to feel the familiar scent. Kenny's scent. That sweet smell between his neck and his shoulder, where Kyle would hide his face for hours on better times.

“Your Grace.” The Princess called in the dark, walking towards the kitchen to get a candle. She moved around as if the room was bright as day, making Kyle wonder if she had ever been back there after becoming a member of royalty. Kenny had told him that she had never done so: in his version of the facts, Marjorine had abandoned her family to serve Cartman's thirst for blood. But now, Kyle understood that as one of the many lies told by the blond when they were together. “We must talk.” She finally said, before getting into the kitchen.

Baahir put his hands on his back and waited in silence, right next to the front door. He reminded Kyle of a careful watcher, much like Stan had been his personal guardian most of his life. The king came to the conclusion – and it felt like an obvious one – that Baahir was madly in love and it had affected his better judgment of things. Kyle's sight was now used to the darkness, at least enough to see the other man's unforgiven black eyes studying him. The elf didn't care, though. He was too distracted looking for something; a family painting, an old toy, anything at all that brought Kenny's face back to his mind. Kyle was terrified of forgetting that beautiful face.

Soon, Marjorine emerged with a lit candle and its orange glow bathed the nearly empty place. Nothing new was revealed.

“Why on earth are we here?” The king finally asked.

“I'm sorry, honey. I know you must have a lot of questions. Let's...” she rested the candle on the coffee table, next to the plate full of crumbles that no one seemed to notice, then she sat on the covered sofa and got a delicate tissue to dry her arms with. Marjorine always carried one of those, a habit she inheritedfrom Eric Cartman as her mentor. Turning to Baahir, she continued. “I think he's sleeping. Can you go get him?”

Without blinking, the man obeyed her request, walking to the long hallway, vanishing from their sight within four seconds.

“Who?” Kyle asked imediatly, uneasy and annoyed at this point. Being there was difficult on its own, but Marjorine's silhouette illuminated by the candle almost drove him insane; the light was weak, shinning over her face just enough to make her look exactly like her brother. “What the hell do you want coming back here? Isn't this killing you? He was your... For the love of gods.”

She watched him for a moment.

“You're shivering.” Marjorine kindly replied. And it was true, he indeed was shivering, more than he had realized in the middle of that internal chaos. “Come here, let's warm your hands up.”

“No! Fuck, just... Tell me what's going on here. _Please_.”

She stared at him for a long time now, looking no more like Kenny, but more like a truly born woman. Marjorine looked strong and beautiful, nothing like the ghost that Kyle had been seeing for weeks. He parted his lips to apologize for his rudeness, but Lady McCormick spoke first, lowering her eyes to the small flame before her.

“It's a huge fantastic world out there, Your Grace, full of things that we still can't entirely comprehend.” She took a pause. “What I mean is... How could you explain the fire to someone who has never seen it, who doesn't understand it? How could you do that without being called insane? You'd have to show it to them so they believe you.”

“What are you afraid of telling me?”

Marjorine finally looked up. It took her some time, but the smile eventually came, as usual.

“Someone here really missed you.”

It's not that hard to guess what happened next, is it?

The blond man stepped out of the hallway. The king had his back to the door, but the scent came stronger now, intoxicating his nostrils. “ _This is it_ ”, the king thought to himself, “ _I couldn't take it. My mind couldn't take it anymore and now I've gone mad, I've gone completely mad._ ” Because he knew the blond man was a few steps behind him, he didn't need to turn around to know it, but it wasn't real, it couldn't be, because Kenny was dead. He was dead. He was...

Then the blond man said his name, evoking the king in a firm manner that was nothing like the soft easy-going way he always did. Or used to to, when he was alive. It came out heavy and raw, but it sounded distant to the king's ears, like an ancient song of his childhood.

He turned around to follow the sound of that voice. It was surprisingly easy for Kyle to give in, to leave behind his kingdom, his family, the war and that goddamn stick, everything that had kept him alive and struggling and fighting só far, even when all he wanted was to wash his hands clean and get carried away by his own mind. Kyle fought back to stay sane because his people needed him. He refused to die in that cell, on Cartman's terms, he refused to never see his little brother again. But now, that was precisely what the king was going to do; it was all too real. That smell, that voice, the heat, it was all too real for him to refuse it. If the blond man was only inside his head, Kyle didn't care at all.

It was only when Kenny wrapped his arms around the elf, holding him so tightly that he couldn't breathe, that Kyle realized he wasn't crazy. His mind was exactly where it was supposed to be. Raising his chin, facing those damn blue eyes from up close, Kyle had no doubt: the blond man was alive.

Kyle had dreamed of that moment for so longo, even though he had never actually believed it would happen, - which maybe proved that he hadn't completely lost his mind – but it was as if he had lived that scene over and over again. The first thing he did when he thought he was seeing Kenny was to put his hand on the blond man's face to make sure he was actually there, breathing and alright. It never felt real, but it never felt unreal either, so Kyle always stood in that limbo that he didn't want to leave behind.

It did feel real this time. Kenny closed his eyes to the touch, something he had never done before in the elf's fantasies. The Kenny who lived on his mind had never actually responded to his actions, unlike this one, this man made of flesh and bone who held him tightly, emanating heat, blinking, brushing his thick skin against Kyle's palm, pressing his hands on Kyle's back. The blond whispered something in his ear, something he didn't understand, but there'd be plenty of time to talk later. All that mattered was Kenny's beating heart, his running blood flow and that tight hug he had longed for so much it nearly killed him. It was time consuming. They didn't know how long they spent like this, but it was long enough for Marjorine to sign to Baahir, pulling him by the wrist so they'd go to the other room, leaving the candle behind for Kyle and Kenny to see each other, as if such thing was necessary. They didn't need the light.

When they parted the embrace, still tangled and extremely close, Kyle left the skeptical hand on the soft cheek, sliding it down to the blond's neck to feel the spot which had been torn when they last saw each other. Kyle remembered it so well, the open flesh and the bloodbath that covered him when Kenny's eyes lost all the light.

“I held you...” The elf whispered. “I held your dead body in my arms for hours. You were dead. I saw you... I...”

Kenny wrinkled his nose in pain, nodding his head as if to confirm that he was right, that it all had happened and yet he was standing on his feet. “ _Yes, yes you did_ ”, he said on his mind. For the first time, Kyle saw those huge blue eyes getting wet, full of tears shinning under the weak candle light, but he wasn't crying, not really. Maybe they were irritated after spending so long in the darkness, away from another one's heat. Now, Kyle could take a good look at the blond man from a distance, able to focus on the expression printed on his face. He looked tired, aged, with deep dark circles under his reddish eyes. Kenny had no shirt on, his large bare chest felt warm and comforting, but he was a wreck of the man he used to be, just like Kyle himself. It was disturbing to realize that his childish golden glow was missing. It had always been there, even when Kenny was locked up the elven tower, that young sweet spirit had always been there to easy anything. The attitude that assured everyone around him that things would turn out alright in the very end.

“Is this God?” Kyle asked, nearly crying of wonder and fear. “Your... Vain, merciless, cruel, vindictive God. The human God, is He real?”

For the first time since they looked at each other in that dark living room, Kenny was actually smiling. It wasn't like his usual smile, though. It was extremely sad, but genuine nevertheless.

“Kyle... This isn't God's work. If anything, it proves just the opposite.”

“I don't understand.”

Kenny couldn't say he understood it either. It was hard to put in words what had happened before he woke up in the middle of the forest, naked and covered in mud. Whatever it was, Kenny only knew it was a part of him ever since he could remeber, but it hadn't happened in years and he had no idea if it could happen again. He was afraid of dying, afraid of being gone forever, of vanishing from the face of the earth and being forgotten. Just like everyone else. Ironically, unlike everyone eles, Kenny was also afraid of never being able to do so. He liked to think – in a stupid act of self-comfort – that he would only come back as he still had something to do on earth.

“I want to explain it to you... Goddamnit, I missed you so fucking much.” The blond took Kyle's hands on his own, looking down at them, unable to see how hurt he was. Kyle crindged, looking absolutely frightened. “I wanted to see you.”

Kyle wasn't sure how to respond to those empty justifications, mostly because they weren't necessary. The elf got rid of Kenny's strong grip and took both hands to his face as he nervously blabbed, pressing a gentle kiss on the corner of his mouth. The blond couldn't breath for a moment or two, taken over by that overwhelming realization of what was about to happen, what he had to do. Kenny had gone through enough to comprehend which measures were necessary. He held Kyle's head between his hands for a long moment, rubbing the tip of his nose against the elf's, pressing his fingers on the sides of his neck, never wanting to let go of him again.

Baahir timidly stood at the kitchen's door, another candle on his hand, enlightening his stern features. His eyes met Kenny's, loaded with guilt for interrupting that needy moment, but it was time to go. Getting his hands off Kyle at that seconds was probably the hardest thing Kenny'd ever had to do his entire life. He licked his lips, looking down to those gorgeous emeralds, tense and anxious at the same time.

“You're coming with us, aren't you?” Kyle asked, as if he already knew the answer. And naturally, he did.

“My brother's still there.”

“Your brother?” The king questioned in a tone that let him know it wasn't the best explanation he could have given him.

The Princess emerged from the darkness when she heard their higher voices, no longer those desperate whispers stuck between reality and a fantasy. They had to get over that. She embraced Baahir from behind, resting her chin against his shoulder, caressing his chest as she watched the scene as an outsider.

“ _Please_.” Kenny begged. “Just get the hell out of here as fast as you can, Cartman will know you're missing in one hour or two at the most. He'll know where to look.” He reached for Kyle's hand. The elf was too apathetic to respond. “That was the plan all along.”

“Are you fucking insane? No, I won't leave you. Not again.”

“Kyle, don't do this now.”

It was impressive how fast Kyle could absorb the whole thing and still have the energy to argue. He looked as broken as he felt, but when it came to it, there was still a sparkle inside him that pushed him to control the situation, something Kenny had actually predicted. They weren't supposed to loose any time with pointless exegesis of Kenny's past and why he was the way he was. Kyle was demanding that from him as one would expect. What mattered was that Kenny was standing right in front of him and the elf intended to keep it this way.

“No! Don't you understand? When I thought you were... I fucking wanted to die too. I should have never thrown you in a cell as I did, I didn't realize... God knows what would have happened if...”

“Hey.” The blond interrupted as gently as possible, pulling him closer for an awkward transient hug. “Calm down.”

“I can't go without you.” Kyle mumbled against Kenny's strong involving arm. “I won't.”

“Listen to me.” He whispered, low enough so the other two wouldn't hear him, pulling away a little to take a good look at that harmed face, brushing his thumb over the red head's dry cracked lips, trying to smile. It was easy to do so when Kenny thought of how beautiful he looked, even under those circunstances. “You'll see Stan soon, alright? Baahir knows where to meet them. If anything at all goes wrong, that man will throw himself on a spike to keep you from harm. He can keep you safe, I can't.”

“If my army is traveling to battle, Cartman can't get to you there. Why the hell will you stay here for? There's nothing you can do for Kevin.”

“There is. Your people won't receive me, Kyle, they'll put an arrow between my eyes as soon as they see me coming with you. And they are right to do so, I deserve it.”

“I'll talk to...”

“Stop it.” The blond man said with a sad smile printed on his lips. “You stubborn little creature. We always knew it would come to this. You belong with your kind, I belong with mine. I won't leave me family.”

Marjorine wanted to smile too, but she couldn't.

It's funny how this things work. In one moment, Kyle had been eager to do anything – to kill and die, if he must – to keep Kenny close to him until the day he was too damn wrinkled and smelly to decide things for himself. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with that man at any cost, never considering the fact that he didn't even know if Kenny could age, or the betrayal it would be to his own kind. None of it mattered. But now, things had suddenly been put in perspective again. The ecstasy was fading away, although slowly, but persistenly, leaving his pores and telling him it was better to listen to the blond.

And pray, above all. Pray for Kenny's God, for his own gods, pray that he would return for him when the war was over. That it wouldn't all have been a raze of his lonely crushed mind trying to push him through that experience. So he got on the tip of his toes to press his lips against the blond man's in longing and fury, begging with that kiss for him to be alright and to come back when he could.

Kenny smiled when he pulled away, holding Kyle's head close to him, whispering:

“Besides... What can Cartman do? Kill me?”

It wasn't funny. But it somehow proved that Kenny was alive.

* * *

But there's yet a third blond man we need to discuss. You're probably getting tired of them, by this point, but it is crucially important to mention the third blond man in question. He moved through the old Ravage street in search of a house you're already familiar with. The rain was eventually showing some mercy and ceasing its force, but never actually stopping. Inside that house, Kenny and his sisters Marjorine sat on the floor and shared a bottle of stolen bourbon that the smart princess hat brought along with her, wrapped on the bag of clothes she had gotten for Kyle to take on his journey. The elf had left with Baahir more than one hour ago and the princess should be heading to the castle by then, but it had been so long since they'd had the chance to talk, just the two of them. Marjorine figured she could take a moment to celebrate the triumph of the first part of their plan.

After she heard about Kenny's death, she had visited the woods every single night, waiting for him to come back. She was certain that he would. When they were children, they had gone through the scare and mourning of loosing Kenny countless times, but he always arose alive and well, laughing at their fear. He was only a boy when he learned that he has a superpower – at least that was how Kenny called it for a small part of his childhood – most humans did not have. His mother had gotten involved with dark magic when she was pregnant with him, for reasons she never spoke of, because after Kenny was born she became a woman of the Lord. Before that, Carol McCormick had never felt the need of committing to the human common religion. She didn't believe it. In fact, Carol spent most of her life doing sinful things that would doom her to burn in Hell. That was alright with her, since she didn't believe in Hell. It was only when her middle child was born that she found the Light. Kenny knew there was nothing illuminated about what happened to his mother, she simply lost her sanity over seeing her son die so many times and come back safe and sound. It got much worse after Karen was killed. Carol became a mad woman, blind with her dogma.

But Marjorine was the only one who seemed to understand what happened to Kenny. She thought of it as a part of him, like the color of someone's eyes. It's just the way they are. And Kenny's immortality made him different from the rest of the world, just like little Butters himself felt at the time. No one was like them, for distinct reasons. Butters felt like a girl. Kenny could not die. If they didn't understand each other, who else would? The rest of the world seemed to think of them as monstrosities.

So she waited. It had been years since Kenny had last died and a small part of her was starting to think that maybe that was it, he would never return from his grave. But Kenny did return. He woke up in the middle of Kupa Keep's Dark Forest, completely naked, covered by mud and rain. It happened after Marjorine had given up on waiting for him. The Dark Forest was where Kenny had always revived, no matter where his body was buried. Kenny had to kill a guard from behind, choking him, to steal his clothes and go find his sister in the middle of the night. Marjorine woke up with Kenny's face so close to hers. She cried for ten minutes after realizing it was actually him. But there was no time for emotions, they had to think of a plan.

Which brings us back to the third McCormick climbing the steps on the porch. He was angry. After all, Marjorine wasn't the only one who had been waiting for Kenny to come back. She wasn't the only one who had been there his whole childhood, who knew what he could do.

Kevin kicked the door open, emiting an awfully loud bang that scared the other two. Marjorine immediately got up, standing in front of Kenny who remained on the ground holding the bottle of bourbon.

“Shit.” Kenny whispered.

The smile on Kevin's face was showed relief and wickedness at the same time, mixed together in a sick smirk of achievment, like when they were kids playing hide and seek. Kevin was soaking wet and held the sword hilt with his only hand, giving out a small chuckle as he watched his brother's disturbed faces.

“Damn it, Butters. I knew you were stupid, but I didn't think you would be _that_ stupid.”

That wasn't going according to the plan.

 


	23. The end of the clearing

Here is the tale of three brothers. It could be a tale for children, since every story for infants contain things that are simply too dark and profound for them to understand. One can take any fairy tale as an example; grown people always see the underlines of conflict and pain that will go by unnoticed by the innocent eye. A child would say that the tale of three brothers is a lovely one, about a beautiful princess, a grand hero and a wicked villain. The hero had a superpower: he couldn't die. He used his superpower only for good and justice, since he was born very pure, brave and righteous, unlike his envy evil brother who also wanted to live forever and therefore hated the younger one. And this would be the climax scene when the evil brother, so ugly and deformed, invades the hiding place in order to drag the hero back to the castle's dungeons where the mad king – to whom he served, of course, because the king was also oh so evil – would lock the hero up and torture him, despite the sweet princess' appeals, as she innocently believed that her older brother was a fair man inside.

But the eyes of a child can't perceive the whole truth. They won't realize that the beautiful princess is actually a boy who hates his own body, an awfully melancholic person who stares at himself naked in the mirror for hours and cries. Someone who is constantly abused and pushed around because she can't speak up for herself, so she is used to being mocked all over her kigdom. And someone who is losing her mind because she can't save her family, she can't keep her brothers from killing each other. The eyes of a child wouldn't tell you how desperate and betrayed the wicked brother feels, how he struggles every second of every day because he actually believes that humans must fight for their kind and it kills him to see his little brother changing sides, getting further and further, abandoning him, giving him away for the enemies to mutilate him the way they did, and now he needs to learn how to live as a useless man, in constant pain. They won't tell you how he's still trying to save the little sister he had lost in war and he just can't lose another sibling, because he is the eldest son, he should protect them the way their drunk father never did.

And most of all, a fairy tale would never deconstruct a hero. Those bricks cannot be taken down, because everything relies on the hero to turn out alright in the end. The ugly truth is that this hero has always been the best of all liars, with no care for morality, ethics or anyone else's feelings. He stole and deceived with no weight on his heart. The only thing that had always mattered was his family, but he also gave up on that when he let his brother get caught. Maybe even before that. And you also wouldn't know how much darkness he carries inside, how little he used to care about life itself after years and years of being brutally killed (commiting suicide many of those times, even as a child) and remembering every single second of it. It was so hard to believe in good after facing the devil from up close.

Now it should be easier to understand the tale of three brothers.

“Kevin.” Marjorine slowly said, raising her hands like she was asking for him to calm down. “What... How did you know?”

“For Christ's sake, Butters, how do you think? Your face doesn't change just because you're not wearing a dress. The jailer recognized you.”

That wasn't exactly what had happened, but it summed up.

“Did you follow me?”

“If I had followed you, I'd had already grabbed that faggot little elf. Now where is he?”

“Well, he's not here.” Kenny said, drunk and angry, getting up from the floor. He had to hold on to the dusty couch to get on his feet. “He's fucking miles away by now.”

Kevin turned his head slightly to the side, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. He stepped forward, slowly licking his lips, staring at the other two to understand whether they were bluffing.

“What did you do?”

“What had to be done, Kevin.” Butters replied with certain agony, much more nervous than his other brother. He didn't feel like Marjorine at the moment. He felt like a 12 years old boy again.

“Are the two of you fucking out of your fucking stupid minds?! What did you do to the fucking elf? I'm not screwing around here, Kenny.”

Kevin was starting to get fidgety now. He hadn't really considered that his little brothers would actually let the elf go. At least not by himself. When Kevin laid eyes on Kenny, he was relieved, because that meant Kyle was probably still there too. He was absolutely sure that they planned to go away together. It didn't take long for Carter, the jailer, to find out that every single guard on the wing B was deep asleep. Kevin was still awake when it happened, he couldn't sleep due to the chronicle pain in his lost hand – he could still feel it, as if it was being ripped from the wrist inchmeal – which had become something current for Kevin. There were some nights worse than others. That one in particular was a living hell. Carter ran to find him for a simple reason: when he met Butters dressed as a guard, he immediately thought it was Kenny McCormick. That's why he hadn't said a word before that moment; he was afraid of the unknown and believed that every magic was dark magic. Carter was an extremely religious man who didn't talk much and preferred to keep his opinions to himself. He was responsible for supervising the guards and most of them were afraid of him.

Carter came to Kevin's room disturbed and confused, reporting his encounter with the man's brother, saying that the elf had disappeared through supernatural forces. It took Kevin a while to understand. A part of him thought that maybe Kenny would never come back, but if he did, the other part of him simply figured that he'd do what was best for him – as usual – and run away. It didn't make sense that he was inside the castle's walls, because Kenny wasn't stupid. He wouldn't get caught that easily, he was a trained thief. Butters had always been the slow one.

Kevin ran to grab Kenny by the collar with his only hand, pointing the other limb to his little brother's face.

“You wouldn't let your whore go alone, he would die. Where the fuck are you hiding him?!”

“Let go of him, Kevin.” Butters asked, afflicted.

But Kenny, on the other hand, was smiling. It was a sick smile, awfully wide and full of satisfaction. He was almost laughing at Kevin's face. He would have been punched if Kevin still had his left hand.

“You can look wherever the fuck you want. You're too late, Kevin.”

“Please, stop!” Butters sounded more like Marjorine again, more secure of his own words. But he still was ignored.

“Do you have any idea what Cartman will do to you when I bring your ass back?”

Now Marjorine was pissed. She grabbed the back of Kevin's shirt to pull him off Kenny before either of them did something reckless. It wasn't all that hard of a task.

“Why the fuck are you standing up for this asshole?!” Kevin yelled, turning to look at her. “He doesn't give a shit about us. Have you forgotten that he's fighting for the other side?! He abandoned us, you and me and your precious people.” Kevin raised his mutilated arm on her face to expose the missing hand. “This is his fucking fault!”

“I know.” She gently held him by the arm. “I know, Kevin. But he's our brother. And our king is not on the people's side, you know that.”

“This is war, Butters! The elves aren't fighting Cartman, they are fighting humans. They'll kill our soldiers and we will kill theirs. That's how it fucking works, you can't compromise. You can't be on the human side and act like your king is a goddamn elf!”

“I'm sorry, Kevin. I really am.” Kenny replied. “I'm... I'm _so_ sorry for turning you in. I've told you already...”

“You fucking convinced me not to turn _you_ in because you had to be free so you could get me out of there. And then you ran and told everything yourself so you could be a fucking martyr. You're not my brother, you're fucking _nothing_ to me.”

“C'mon, don't...”

Kenny couldn't finish his sentence before Kevin grabbed the bottle on the floor and used it to hit him hard on the head, making his little brother fall flat on the ground, unconscious. Marjorine screamed.

“What are you doing?!”

“The two of you will end up killing yourselves. Now, I don't give a shit about him, but I'm not letting him take you down too.”

. . .

The elven war camp had one thing in particular that was different from all the other war camps: there was always someone singing. Elves usually had lovely voices, but that wasn't the whole reason they had developed the habit to sing. War wasn't part of their nature, they were creatures who normally didn't live close to other species and had no reason to battle among themselves. The elves of Zaron were involved in wars since the beginning of times and they believed that songs would keep the dark spirits away, at least when it all started. It wasn't a literal belief for most of those elves, but it did make them feel close to home. The night was beautiful, the sky was clear and bright because of the endless stars shining over the tents. There was a fire to keep warm those who weren't yet asleep and the fire danced so wonderfully orange, the wood cracking from time to time as it burned. Wendy was sitting on a stump close by, her hands on her knees, wearing her pitch black hair down, smooth and glossy. Her voice was sweet, mixing so well with Gregory's rough and impeccable one. It was truth that the two of them didn't always get along, but when it came to singing together, it was like they had been made for each other.

 __There are loved ones in the glory  
Whose dear forms you often miss  
When you close your earthly story  
Will you join them in their bliss?

There were about five or six soldiers listening, but one of them was laying on the grass with his eyes closed, almost sleeping. Stan played the banjo, producing the softest sound in the earth, wearing a sad smile on his face that combined perfectly with the song. It had been some tough past few days of rain and fear. That night, the sky had finally cleared up, giving the army a sparkle of better days to come.

Ike sat away from the small group, resting by a tree. He watched Terrance and Phillip as they danced with their eyes closed in awkward moves that had nothing to do with the rhythm being played. The boy was almost smiling at the scene. He found himself somehow fascinated about the twins. Phillip held something in his arms that deserves attention.

  
  


_In the joyous days of childhood_  
Oft they told of wondrous love  
Pointed to the dying saviour  
Now they dwell with him above

 _Will the circle be unbroken_  
By and by, Lord, by and by?  
Is a better home awaiting  
In the sky, oh, in the sky?

  
  


After all, everything that had happened over the last months was evolved around the so called Stick of Truth.

Ike knew the Stick was kept in a cave. The Cave of Good Will. It was the most beautiful cave of Zaron, but very few people knew that, since it was very well hidden. You'd have to cross an old long bridge that connected one mountain to anoter. In the middle, there was an abism. Ike had to cross that bridge with the two most weird creatures he had ever met, which worsen the big picture substantially. But in the end, he was grateful that Terrance and Phillip were frightened, because he had to focus on making sure that the two of them made it to the other end. He couldn't be scared. So he wasn't.

When they were walking through that horribly dark cave, Ike's fear finally started to build up. His family had prepared him for this. Kyle described him the way years before, so he wasn't entirely surprised with what he encountered. But the twins nervously babbling and the time running by without seeing anything in complete darkness was getting on his nerves.

They've told him all his life that the power of the Stick could be felt for miles and it could make one forget his own name, every concern, every trauma. It was true. When Ike started to feel its presence, he was took over by a great and inexplicable calmness. It would be alright, he just knew it. The twins had probably felt it way before him, because they had suddenly shut up. Ike noticed that Terrance carried Phillip on his back. It made him miss Kyle.

Now, back to the camp, Ike watched them happily dance as Phillip held the Stick on his arms, wrapped on a blue blanket like it was a baby. They didn't let go of it, not even for a minute.

“Zey are so fucking weird.” Christophe observed, sitting beside the younger boy, moaning tiredly. And he really must have been exausted, Ike thought. “I made one of zem cry zis afternoon. It was lovely.”

“How was that?”

“Ze blondie was nagging ze hell out of me with a stupid twig, pretending to be some kind of wizard of all galaxies or some shit like zat. So I broke 'is little twig and told 'im zat what I would do with 'is legs if 'e didn't leave me ze fuck alone.”

Ike finally laughed, something he didn't even know he still remembered how to do. Christophe noticed that; How delicious that timid chuckle felt for the boy. It made him smile, something that also didn't happen very ofter in regular circumstances.

The twins started to fight when Terrance asked if he could hold the Stick for a while (they had done that all day long). But the only sound taking place was Wendy's serene voice, slow and melancholic as it penetrated their skulls. Soon, the two brothers would stop arguing and swing to the sad melody of the song, holding each other with the Stick between their bodies. They had this amazing capacity to stop in the middle of a fight to do something they judged to be more important – dancing, in that case – and Ike couldn't help but wonder what it was like to fight with someone who know everything you have to say. His first conclusion was that the twins were probably bored with each other at that point, but it certainly didn't look like it. In fact, it looked like they were everything to one another.

_I told the undertaker_

“ _Undertaker, please drive slow,_

_For this body you are hauling,_

_Lord, I hate to see her go”_

Ike turned to look at the man beside him and had the impression that his hazel eyes were full of tears. Unshed tears, naturally, that soon Christophe got rid of using the back of his hand. But the younger boy didn't believe what he had seen. He didn't think it was real, that a man like Christophe could cry and bleed just like everyone eles; a sweet fantasy of the young eye that did not correspond at all to the reality.

“Zat's a fucking nice song.” The Frenchman mumbled to himself.

“It is.”

Christophe took a moment before speaking again.

“I'm sorry I slapped you.”

“What?”

The Mole rubbed his face, taking a long and deep breath. He had trained to talk about this so many times inside his head, but it still didn't feel right to say it out loud. There was no right way to say what he was saying.

“I'm sorry for slapping you.” He repeated. “I shouldn't 'ave... I wasn't myself when I did zat.”

“Please, Mole, don't. You were right. I can't fall apart when shit goes wrong, specially if I want to be a warrior. I'm not a kid anymore.”

“Zis 'as nozing to do with it.”

“Of course it does. You don't cry when you're in pain.”

Christophe had to laugh. Not actually laugh, but he let the air out through his noistrils, offering a short smile that revealed his teeth, shaking his head at the same time because Ike, as smart as he was, still sounded like a child sometimes.

“Well, I heard zat once. My old man didn't zink men should cry.” He told, evolving Ike's shoulders with his arm. “When I was a lot younger zan you, my family and I came to Zaron. We traveled across ze sea in ze basement of a ship. I was really fucking scared. I 'ave no brozer or sister, it was just me and my parents. Ze basement was nasty, people 'ad to pee and shit on ze floor, zere were not a lot of food and some people were getting sick and dying right next to us. Ze bodies 'ad to stay down zere. Well, we were fugitives. Ze war was messing Europe in ways you couldn't begin to imagine. Humans in Zaron used to live só well at ze time, zings didn't use to be like zey are now.” Christophe shook his head, lost in thoughts, getting back on track. He pulled away from Ike, who stared at him with eyes wide open. “Anyway. My old man woke up one night and saw me crying. My dad beat ze shit out of me and told me 'e 'adn't raised a pussy. It's one of ze only memories I 'ave of 'im.”

_We sang the songs of childhood_

_Hymns of faith that made us strong_

_Ones that our mother had taught us,_

_Hear the angels sing along_

The twins weren't dancing anymore, although the song was still playing and Wendy was still singing. The Mole watched as Terrance and Phillip held each other, slowly swinging to their own rythm. Something was probably playing inside their heads and both of them (and only they) could hear it. Their eyes were closed like nothing else existed in this world. Being close to them – and around the Stick – made Christophe feel better for some reason.

“I was eight.” The Mole casually added while lighting a cigarette.

Ike blinked for the first time in what felt like forever. He felt like he should say something, but there was nothing on his mind.

“That's terrible.”

Christophe smiled, putting his hand on Ike's knee.

“What I mean is: I'm very glad you still can cry. Don't ever lose zat, no matter what happens.”

The boy nodded with a certain pride of what he was hearing, showing off the slightest smile he had to offer at the moment, but Christophe wasn't looking at him to catch it.

_One by one, seat were emptied_

_And one by one they went away_

_Now the family is parted_

_Will it be complete one day?_

“Mole?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think my brother will be alright? Do you... Think that we'll ge him back as he was before?”

No, he didn't believe such thing was possible. But he wasn't about to say that to Ike's face, not when that boy's eyes were so full of hope. Hope was something that Christophe hadn't experienced or even seen in quite some time. He didn't want it to end.

“I don't know, kid. I really don't know.”

Terrance watched them from his spot, resting his chin on Phillip's shoulder, smiling to himself because he knew things that they didn't. He could feel a brave prince arriving, Terrance had dreamed of that and his senses told him the time was coming. When he woke up from the dream, he immediately told his brother, the only person to whom he would tell everything. Phillip already knew it, of course, but he simply told Terrance to stop eating squirrels before bed.

. . .

The ball room was Cartman's favorite place on the castle, but only when it was empty. Cartman loved rooms that had been built for greatness; How tall and imposing and wide everything was, how his voice was projected and echoed all through the room when he promoted intimate encounters there.

On the night that his most precious prisoner went missing, he was busy in an equally important meeting to solve a little situation he had on his hands. The king convened Damien, one of the Lords of darkness who had been staying on the king's personal forest (also known as the Wizard Garden). Cartman knew how to treat his guests and Damien, as the wild creature he was, didn't feel comfortable surrounded by walls, so he had the forest all to himself while he waited for his prize. In the ball room, however, he looked tranquile. ' _Good_ ', Cartman thought, ' _that should make it easy_ '. Damien sat on a red couch with his legs crossed, his hands resting on his tighs. His face was almost vicious to look at.

There was yet another presence in the ball room that night. Not a human, no, but an exotic wight that looked human from head to waist, while his legs were like a goat's, golden blond as his hair. It was a faun. He was always trembling, frightened; First because of his fragile nature, second because of trauma that had molded him to be that way. Tweek was his name. He was Cartman's personal wine boy ever since he was captured in one of the king's haunting adventures in the woods. When the prey couldn't be eaten or hanged, it was enslaved.

But Tweek's presence didn't seem to be recognized by either men. They had important issues to discuss.

“I really should be thanking you properly. I'm ashamed I didn't have the time to do it earlier.”

Damien normally didn't give in to Cartman's cheap fawning, but that night he was in an absurdly great mood. The king snapped his fingers for Tweek to serve something for his guest to drink, pointing at an specific bottle. Tweek's hands were shaking when he held the dark red bottle to pour its content in a crystal glass.His nostrils were wide to the scent of that thick silver liquid coming out. It had a beautiful purple glow. Tweek frowned.

“I just want my reward, Cartman.” Damien replied.

“Oh, don't worry about that. You've been such a great pal to me.” The king continued, standing up. “I know we haven't always been in the best terms, but I've always liked you, Damien. You are, indeed, a great part of this victory.”

“Victory? Isn't it a little early to claim that?”

Cartman walked towards Tweek, who stood next to the trolley of drinks holding the glass of silver looking liquid. It was unicorn blood, Tweek recognized it right away. But it had the strangest smell. It smelled like something entirely different, something he was sure he had felt before, but couldn't put his finger on it. By the way Cartman stared at him, Tweek immediately realized that he wasn't supposed to know. He let out a scared gasp when the king rudely pulled the glass from his hand.

“Get me some fucking wine, you useless baby shit.”

Cartman stood there beside him, waiting with one hand resting on his sore hip. He was getting old for that crap, he thought. Damien switched the crossed leg, lifting his chin and distractedly caressing his inner tighs, watching the glass with curiosity.

“As I was saying,” The king smiled. “I wanted to take a moment to thank you for everything you've done. So look what I got you.” He proudly raised the glass. “The finest unicorn blood Zaron has to offer. You'll never find anything like it.”

Damien had to smile at how pretentious Cartman could be when he wanted to. That's why they had never gotten along all that well; The king felt like ripping that superior expression right off Damien's face with his jackknife, but it didn't work like that when he was dealing with a demon. He had to accept that he was powerless, which was extremely painful for him. Damien thought it was delightful.

“How lovely.”

Tweek spilled some wine on the silver platter that held the drinks. In normal circumstances, Cartman would have punched him in the face for it, but he was too distracted to even notice. Tweek twitched when the king leaned over to take the glass of wine, still talking to Damien, not paying attention to the servant's fear. Cartman fed of his servant's fear, Tweek thought, so there was something strange going on there. He just stood there and watched as the king got back to the couch and handed the blood to Damien, glowing beautifully in nuances of purple and green depending on how the light hit it. Damien hadn't eaten in a while – a few days, at least -, mostly because he was saving himself for what would be the best meal of his life. His pupils grew wider in lust and hunger, his mouth watered when he held the glass – something he wasn't used to – and drank from it. It felt incredible. Demons craved for unicorn blood more than anything, even more than elven when it came to taste. Damien didn't finish it at once, he stopped half way to save a little for tasting, moaning soflty and closing his eyes. His mouth and chin were smeared with the dense liquid.

“Damn it, that's fucking good.”

Cartman sat beside him, enjoying his own drink with much less fluster.

“I am really glad you like it.” He rested his cheek on his palm and supported the elbow on the couch's back pillows, lifting the corner of his lips in a discrete smile. “I searched through my books to learn more about your kind because I wanted to make sure you'd be satisfied. There are some really fascinating things about demons.”

“Yeah?” Damien asked, not actually listening to the human king, licking the drops off his lips and holding the cup with both hands as he regaled with the delicious fluid.

“Yes, indeed. There are some things I've never even thought about. For example... How is it like to live with a nymph knowing that they are toxic to you?”

“They aren't. It's just their blood. Are you going somewhere with this? What did you bring me here for anyway?”

Cartman slowly blinked and smile at the demon's impatience, taking a sip from the wine. Then he let his index finger play around the thin crystal of his cup.

“Of course not. I brought you here to let you know that there has been a change of plans.”

The demon was still staring at him, but it was hard to tell if he had heard the king's words, if he was following any of what was going on. Damien had turned paler than he usually was and one of his red eyes started twitching, much like Tweek's constantly did. His mouth went completely dry, his bloodshot red eyes started to go darker, almost turning black. He didn't let go of the glass and he didn't look away. In fact, he didn't move at all.

“Kyle ran away.” The king continued, no alteration in his voice. “I'm not sure where he is, but don't worry, I'll find out.”

Damien opened his mouth to try and say something, but nothing came out. Nothing that made sense, at least. After a few seconds, there was an awful sound, dry and slow, but Damien started coughing a dark substance that soon would start to come out of his eyes too. Cartman took another sip, speaking ever so calmly.

“Now, I could have used your help if you weren't so goddamn greedy. You could have asked me for anything, Damien. I'd have gladly given it to you.”

The demon was barely recognizable at that point. He let go of the cup, letting shatter in a million pieces, soon falling from the couch right over the broken crystal, holding his own throat, finally able to scream in pure agony, blind as he felt his flesh melt on the bones. It was slow, the smoke coming from the burning skin and the acid liquid eating him from inside out, making him writhe on the floor like an epileptic. Tweek hid behind the trolley of drinks, watching the scene with huge scared eyes, shrinking with Damien's screams. Cartman stood up, approaching that deformed body. The smell was terrible.

“You asked me for the only thing I could never give you. Did you really think I would let you have Kyle? Just like that?”

The king walked around the contorted body that was falling apart right in front of him. Damien's eyes, so red and deadly, had now been reduced to two pools of blood that took over his once beautiful face. The blood came out of his mouth, nose and ears too. He was losing all catch, drowning in himself, praying (as ironic as it sounds) for it to end. Cartman took yet another sip and moaned in pleasure, rubbing his hip.

“Bebe was a fine looking slut.” He made sure that Damien was still alive to hear him. “I made sure to clarify what she was dying for when I drained all the blood from her body.”

“Oh, sweet mother of heaven...” Tweek mumbled after a while, when Damien couldn't scream anymore. Cartman casually turned around to look at him.

“What is it, thing?”

“Oh, uh. I...” He hesitated, looking down. “F-forgive me, Y-y-your Majesty. But nymph's blood is... I-it is rosy as the l-lips of a v-vir-virgin. You've enchanted it, my Lord, b-but how...? I don't understand.”

“What don't you understand?” Cartman asked impatiently. Tweek was ruining a very sweet moment for him.

“How did he not realize it? I... I could smell it.”

“He was blind with lust.” The king shook his hand, looking back and what had once been Damien Thorn. “Poor motherfucker. Clean this mess for me, thing, would you?”

. . .

Baahir had had a shitty week. Traveling that far – and for the reasons that he was doing it – was never easy. If he was to be honest about it, most of the time he had no idea why on earth he was taking a precious prisoner back to the people who were at war agains his own kind, but Marjorine made só much sense when she asked for his help. He tried not to think about it, mostly because some very dark thoughts took place when he considered the situation. And Kyle looked só fragile that Baahir always wondered how easy it would be to strangle him in the woods and just get it over with. It was so morbid and obscure, but the truth was that it afflicted Baahir to think of what would happen if Cartman got his hands on that poor creature again. Kyle deserved to rest. Cartman would never kill him, he would never let it end.

As fragile as Kyle looked, Baahir had some evidence that he was in fact much stronger than one would think. First of all, because Baahir had believed in that soft aristocratic figure, assuming that he would have to take care of the elf all the way, as if he was a princess. But it turned out that Baahir was humiliated over and over again by Kyle's absurd ability to live in a forest. Humans weren't trained for that. Kyle, as every elf, knew the plants, what could and could not be eaten, where to find which kind of animal or potable water, what they should keep their distances of, how to mark location, whether or not it would rain. Although the last one wasn't particularly hard: it rained all through the week, which intensified Baahir's shitty days.

They barely talked. Baahir tried a couple of times, asking about the life in the elven kingdom, about Kenny, but Kyle didn't give him a chance.

When the week came to an end, Baahir had the sweet sight of a fire in the distance. It was late at night. Kyle was sleeping with his cheek pressed against Baahir's back and had his arms around the man's torso so he wouldn't fall off the horse. The elf was still weak and at the begining of their travel he slept without even realizing it, like his mind would suddenly stop functioning. He nearly fell and cracked his head open a few times. Baahir had to ask him more than once to hold on to his waist for safety. Kyle was hesitant about it at first, but he eventually gave in.

He didn't wake the elf right away after sighting the camp. There were still several meters to go and he felt that Kyle deserved some sort of rest for as long as possible, since he wouldn't have that after he was reunited with the ones he loved. The tents were well hidden – elves in general knew their way around any forest, apparently – so they woulnd't be exposed, but Baahir could see at least one of them as when he got close enough, ears and eyes wide ipen, searching for movement.

The camp wasn't in the middle of the forest, they had found a clearing (which Gregory actually knew before, he planned their way very strategically), but most of the tent were placed among the trees. The camp took the forest's entrance and spread all the way to the open field to accommodate the entire army. It was too dark at night, Baahir had to get extremely close to finally see that some of the elves were still awake. He was used to being sneaky and trying not to be seen, so it took him a moment to decide whether or not he should emerge from the trees and reveal himself. Kyle moved a little bit and moaned lazily, brushing his cheek against the man's back, starting to wake up like he felt the proximity to his own.

Jimmy, the bard, talked to Christophe as they shared an metal cup full of rum. They sat on the grass. Jimmy had an atrophy on his legs, but he always went along with the army to entertain the men on the cold hard nights. It wasn't as efficient as women – or men -, Jimmy was aware, but he loved to make people smile on such dark times of war. Both him and the Frenchman didn't sleep well at night, so they kept each other company. Christophe talked to Jimmy like he didn't use to talk to everyone else, simply because the bard wasn't like everyone else. He was genuinely good, interested, unpretentious.

They were discussing an episode that had happened earlier that night with Stan and Terrance involving boiling water and a razorback. It was a miracle that nobody got hurt.

Unlike Christophe, Jimmy was always relaxed and didn't use to be on alert full time, so he didn't understand right away when the other man got on his feet.

“Where are you going?”

He started to walk away amid the darkness.

“Mole! What happened?”

But as soon as the horse emerged from the woods, revealing Baahir's trembling figure, the Frenchman couldn't see anything eles, couldn't hear or feel or even smell the world around him. It was like everything was crumbling under his feet and he didn't even care. He knew that face. Oh, he knew it so well. After that split of second, the Mole was running.

Gregory was also close by when it happened. He was warming his hands by the fire, trying to keep it alive and burning throughout the night. The blond man still had plenty of nightmares about Bradley Biggle's voice choking on blood and vomit, especially about the wet feeling of his sword tearing what was left of the boy's flesh. As a general, Gregory had put other boys to rest and it had never gave him nightmares before. Those deaths felt cleaner, like those other kids were supposed to die, as if such thing existed. Exploring those morbid thoughts wouldn't get him any sleep. His nights were mostly spent fighting with Christophe and strategizing with only a couple of hours of heavy sleep after the sun came up.

That night, however, Gregory wouldn't do any of that.

He heard that thick French accent shouting:

“You, mozerfucker! _I'll fucking kill you!_ ”

From a distance, Gregory watched the man on a horse raise his hands as Christophe ran in his direction. But the horse got scared and turned to the side, neighing, making Baahir grab the rein once again so he wouldn't fall. Gregory frowned for a second, noticing the strange figure behind Baahir. He was close enough to run towards Christophe before he got to the intruder, almost dropping him to the ground as he stopped the Mole from going forward.

“Wait! Wait, wait, wait...” Gregory whispered to his ear like he was talking to an angry child. Christophe was almost punching him, screaming out barbarities in French before turning to the blond man.

“Zis piece of shit took Kyle!”

“I know.” Gregory replied as calm as he could while staring at Baahir in the penumbra, caressing the back of Christophe's neck. He did not know that, of course, but it didn't matter. Keeping Christophe under control was the only important thing at the moment. “Look. Just look.”

To his relief, Wendy came running out of her tent with a bow on hands, arming her arrow and pointing it at everyone present until she found the right target. She was barefoot, wearing her silky sleep gown, her hair up in a bun and her eyes catching fire.

“What the hell is going on?!”

The superiors slept away from the soldiers. The other tents were too far for the sleeping men to hear the comotion. Stan wasn't even in his tent that night. Wendy was supposed to stay back home with Token, but she wanted to help with the injured men and now Gregory was very thankful for that. Baahir lifted his hands once again, although the horse was still agitaded, moving around.

“Now you all come the shit down!” The human finally said, slowly positioning to get down from the animal, but Wendy pulled the arrow even tighter, threatening him with her expression.

“Don't you dare. Who the hell are you?!”

“Look.” Gregory tried to get their attention to tell them what he had seen, but it was still hard to believe.

Baahir didn't take his chances. He stood still, licking his lips and staring at the woman, considering that he hadn't come that far to die with an arrow in his chest. He carefully turned to the side, keeping his hands in sight at all times, whispering:

“Can you get down on your own?”

The voice came weak, with certain delay, for Kyle wasn't yet completely conscious.

“I think so.”

When the person behind the rider started to get down, Wendy came closer, frowning in precipitation.

“Don't you move, I'll put a hole in you!”

“Don't...” Gregory said with delight. “For all heavens, don't you see?”

He wasn't sure of what he was seeing either, but that small and trembling shape looked awfully familiar. Baahir had to hold the creature by the arm, looking worried that he would break at any second. When the elf's feet touched the wet grass, he slowly turned around to reveal the face under that messy ruffled hair, the fragile skin full of scars, the thin and shivery body that was only a scratch of the vigorous figure they all remembered. Kyle kept one hand on the animal to support his weight, looking down in shame. But it lasted for only a second. Soon, he was raising his chin, swallowing dry, facing Wendy's arrow. His eyes were greener than ever.

“You may want to put that down now.”

But she didn't, at least not for the first couple of moments. Her mouth was open and her eyes didn't believe what they were seeing. It was the general feeling, a mix of wonder and horror. In Wendy's eyes, Kyle could see how unrecognizable he truly was.

Jimmy was the one who broke the silence with a marvelous laughter, covering his mouth right after, like a child who laughs at the inappropriate moment. His wide smile was still there. It broke the trance, algo bringing a soft smile to Kyle's face. He looked around. His bright eyes met Christophe's.

The king's expression melted in sorrow and relief , mostly because he couldn't handle those feelings anymore. He felt like his skin had been ripped off his flesh ever since he met Kenny face to face at the old house. Kyle's instinct was to walk towards Christophe like a drunken man, barely enduring his own body, but gaining strength on each step.

“You... You're here. You're alive.” Kyle mumbled, opening his arms even before he catch the man, throwing himself at the larger body that held him a moment before he fell. “You're alive.” He repeated.

Christophe didn't say a word. He received Kyle in the tightest embrance, blinking slowly, staring at the ground with his chin rested against the bony shoulder. The king's body was ice cold, but his heart was beating intensely.

“I was so fucking scared.” Kyle mumbled with teary eyes. “I thought they had gotten you. For all the gods, I will never let go of you.”

The Mole's large hand covered the back of Kyle's head, feeling the holes among his hair, the open cuts on his scalp. He was so skinny, so broken, but unlike Wendy and Gregory and Jimmy, Christophe didn't take more than half a second to absorb that he was real. He wasn't shocked. He wasn't scared by the deformity. All he could see was that Kyle was there; He was alive. And Christophe could breathe again.

 


	24. Wolf's blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry if it's been so long that none of you remember what the hell happened last chapter. This little monster has been written for quite some time in Portuguese, but I just couldn't bring myself to translate it. I was seriously considering paying someone to do it for me, that's how much I suck. I wasn't happy with the story itself and I was really insecure about my English. I AM ASHAMED, okay? The last chapter is also done and it's three times longer than this one, I'm working on translating it and I swear to god I won't take six months to post it. I can't thank you guys enough if you're still here willing to end this story with me. I hope I don't mess things up.
> 
> I also want to thank Negin (Black Nidstang) for always encouraging me and always believing in my story. You guys wouldn't be reading this if it weren't for her.

Stanley Marsh had forgotten to shave. Time seemed to flow between his fingers; he had a hard time recognizing where he was or what he should be doing every time he drank a little too much. Of course, that is natural to all the man who intoxicate themselves.But he was sober now, slowly waking up, with the body lying on his back on the damp grass, facing up at the sky. The trees had protected him throughout the cold night, since the rain took too long to cease. Even now that there was a pause, the storm announced a great comeback with overwhelming thunderstorms. Stan wondered how simple it would be to just surrender and be taken away by rain. He could remember an old tale about the Christian God sending out a terrible storm that lasted forty days and forty nights. He had always thought of such a thing as extremely silly, but maybe he had been wrong his whole life. Maybe it could all end in water. It would be a beautiful end, a merciful end. Maybe all the pain would be washed away from him.

He no longer felt like the Stanley he once knew. It was somewhat ironic that Kenny had been, throughout this whole story, the one thrown to the ground and beaten like a mutt, while Stan was the fearless and powerful warrior, tall and imposing, with his bow and arrow and his immense immaculate sword. Now here he was, a rag of the man who he had taken a lifetime to become. Stan was not born in a golden cradle like anyone would think just by looking at him. He knew the dirt and the blood as well he knew glory. Everything seemed so far away now.

“By all heavens, look at you.”

Stan would never mistake that voice because it had echoed inside his skull for days nonstop. It was a voice that had been part of his life, in different tones, since he could remember. A shadow fell over him. The pain of cutting head Stan difficult to open your eyes. It took a while before he had the strength to open his eyelids and focus on the creature standing there, watching over him. The strange figure slowly started to shape before his pupils. It was the most familiar silhouette.

“Kyle.” Stanley whispered, raising one hand in front of his own face to cover the timid ray of sunlight that cut through the leaves. His throat was sore, throbbing, making his voice come out hoarse. It was a sign of the hellish night he'd had. “Am I dead?”

He wasn't afraid of the answer that the shadow would provide him with. Stanley had made good use of his life, he had made peace with his own choices and all the ugly moments that plagued him for years. He had also made peace with the disappearance and the sudden death of his sister, with the fact that he had not cried on the day of her funeral and had spent years in a numb stated, anesthetized, questioning whether or not he had ever wished that Shelly would just disappear. He also made peace with his mother's depression, with her withdrawal, with his father's drinking. With the fact that was orphaned too early in life. He was at peace with the lovers he did not have and with men he had killed.

Someone would take good care of Sparky, no doubt. It was his only concern, the only being who really depended on him, who he could protect. Because Kyle had been snatched from him, so it might be better to just leave right away; maybe they would meet again very soon.

Stan suddenly felt a tongue; a huge, wet tongue against his cheek. He hadn't realized his eyes had shut again, but that undeniably real feeling woke him once more to the physical world around him. All of his senses awakened in a flash. His heart was racing, his breathing was out of control, dilated pupils and nostrils wide open, capturing Sparky's unmistakable terrible breath.

“Well, I'm not.” Kyle told him, his voice softer and his sweetest smile, now kneeling next to his warrior.

Stan looked at him for a long period of time.

The king wore the most simplistic clothes Stan had ever seen him in. A long light brown tunic that nurses wore during the war, his skin glistening in all the bruises and scars from cuts spread throughout his body. His face and hair looked clean, his eyes were deep open and bright, but sad, even though there was a smile on his face. He looked beautiful.

Sparky jumped excitedly from side to side, barking and wagging his tail. Kyle had trusted the canine's mission to find his owner, and Sparky, in turn, did not disappoint.

Stan slid his hand slowly to his own chest and let out a shuddering groan, squinting as a painful cry emerging from deep inside, restrained tears running down his cheeks. Stan covered his eyes with the other hand, as if he felt ashamed, writhing on the ground almost in a fetal position, sobbing while Kyle leaned forward and pressed his forehead against the warrior's, holding Stan's wrist, squeezing it tightly.

“Shh, it's okay. It's okay, Stan. I am here.”

 

* * *

 

Baahir was silent. The chapel, after all, was a place for silence. Craig Tucker was on his knees making a small prayer to the heavens, something he hadn't done for at least ten years. Baahir had never pictured him as a man of God, regardless of what God it was. He came a little closer and lifted his chin to the porcelain statue of the Virgin Mary, a holy image that only humans of Zaron worshiped. The Catholic Church was practically extinct. Baahir himself had no intimacy with the Christian belief. He waited patiently until Craig was done with his moment in the most respectful way he could, but as soon as Craig raised his head, the other man asked:

“Who are you praying for?”

Craig considered to just ignore that question because it sounded too invasive and intimate. He decided not to do so.

“For Clyde.” He then made a pause. Baahir raised his eyebrows curiously. “Anyway... I don't really think they will ever let that asshole in the kingdom of heaven, if that shit even exists. But hey. Do you want something?”

“Oh.” Baahir scratched his head, as if he had been caught off guard. “Yeah, I heard they caught McCormick. Do you know something about it?”

“Yeah, man, it's been a few days.” Craig got up from the floor and used one of the banks to support his foot, bending to tie the loose laces of his boot. “Where the fuck have you been anyway? I haven't seen you in more than a week.”

Under the flickering light of small candles placed in crystal cups and dispersed by the altar, Baahir's expression seemed troubled. It wasn't so explicit, just a subtle discomfort caused by heartburn or anything of that nature. It wasn't enough that the thief would notice. After all, Craig was not really looking for anything unusual. If he was, he'd have sniffed Baahir's fear like a dog. The question was ignored.

“The King must have been pissed. Does he intend to hang him or something?”

“No, that wouldn't...” Craig interrupted mid sentence, narrowing his eyes. He pulled his shoe laces and straightened up, resting his elbow on his thigh. “He has made Kenny go through much worse than the gallows. And you know who was hiding him? That freak of his sister's. No one has seen her since Kenny came back.” He couldn't help a short and sadistic laughter, adding with some pride. “Came back wouldn't be the right term for it. Since Kevin _dragged_ his sad ass back here.”

Baahir remained silent. His dark eyes were focused on the dancing light of hundreds of candles, the only illumination source in the dark chapel. The way the orange glow touched his face made him look older, uglier, revealing how exhausted he truly was. If there was anything Baahir learned during the two years he spent with Marjorine was how to keep a secret. The whole situation was uncontrollable and he knew it from the first moment they looked at each other. He couldn't try to protect Marjorine from anything without making all of their effort so far absolutely useless. " _Trust me_ ," she always told him, and he could only obey.

There was nothing more important to Marjorine than her family and her people. These two things would always come before Baahir, but that didn't hurt his feelings at all. On the contrary, it made him want her and love her even more. Moreover, Baahir didn't have a family or a realm to put before Marjorine, so her priorities were also his own. And Marjorine's priority was never herself.

He calmly repeated in his brain that she would be fine. He had to take a deep breath, not immediately convinced of that.

“That's understandable. He is her brother. It is natural that she tries to protect him.”

“Yeah, whatever. The only thing that matters is winning this fucking war. I don't know where the hell you've been, but you may already know that the King somehow managed lose our bait. The elf disappeared, Cartman is convinced that the princess had something to do with it.”

“And did she?”

Craig shrugged. He didn't look healthy; there was such a sad shadow over his face, Baahir realized. All he could think about was how that damn war was eating all of them alive, even impassive creatures like Craig Tucker couldn't stay immune. He was a man overcome by grief, something that Baahir understood very well.

“Well, who the fuck knows? I don't think she would be that stupid, but maybe the King should spend more time focusing on defeating the real enemy, instead of blaming one of us.”

“But I don't understand. If the High Elf was a bargaining chip for the Stick, what is our plan now? We have nothing left.”

“Cartman wants to depart ahead of schedule. He has a plan.” Craig gave him a pat on the shoulder, then squeezed the man's arm, revealing a bit of apprehension. “Try to get some rest, you look like fish. We have a long day tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

Eric Cartman was a resilient man. Certainly he didn't look like one. At first glance, many would consider him to be an angry, impatient and stubborn man who would punch anyone if that would get him what he wanted, moved by vanity and pride. As a king, he had not only the power to punch whoever he pleased, but also to assassinate any poor soul who decided to cross his path. And he didn't even need to get his hands dirty in the process. His tyranny would cause many to believe that Eric Cartman was as inconsequential as a child, but it was not the case. His desire to hurt someone, no matter how deep it was, never surpass what he could gain from the life of that individual. He would have to keep that in mind more than usual for the next two days.

His army was still camping far from the Elven army, but he could already see their fire burning in the distance, preserving the life and the warmth of his enemies. The night was cold and the rain became furious again. His own fire was large enough to keep his royalty warm. The fire was partially covered by a huge tent that also protected the king as he sat on his mighty throne to observe his men's feast. In his hand there was a huge golden chalice that produced a metallic sound every time it collided with Cartman's rings. He was waiting. He needed to wait.

Tweek shyly served him more red wine. The faun's fur was soaked wet from going back and forth from one tent to another carrying barrels of drink and food under the heavy rain.

Kevin was standing a few feet away from the throne, silent and downcast, though there was a strange anxiety in his breath. The mutilated wrist was well hidden under his thick red coat, his spine was bent forward as if the weight of the world laid on his shoulders. The hand that he still had left was close to his mouth so he could bite his nails to the point of bleeding.

“You did very well by bringing him to me, McCormick.” The king said suddenly, breaking his own concentration. “Stop torturing yourself, for Christ's sake.”

Kevin slowly pulled his hand from his mouth, as if he had been caught doing something inappropriate.

“I'm not.” Kevin mumbled.

“Good. Because tomorrow will not be pretty.” The king offered a sly smile before drinking from the cup of wine. It tasted terrible, but he did not care. Everything was glorious that night. “He will be useful.”

“But you killed Kenny right before that pussy's eyes, how the hell will you threaten him with my brother's life? Who do you think has released the elf? He knows that Kenny can come back, there is no purpose to say that you will kill him again.”

As stated earlier, Eric Cartman was a resilient man in any situation. If things didn't work as expected, he didn't need more than a few hours to recover. During a period in his path, things started to go very wrong for him, that is true. But not anymore.

“Thing.” The king said to his servant. Tweek clenched his fingers around the wine jar wing and opened his eyes, lifting his chin a little to listen carefully. “Leave us alone. Go feed the creature. We do not want him to die prematurely. That would ruin all the fun.”

The faun enthusiastically nodded his head and rested the jug on the wooden table, alongside a snow globe that the king's mother had given to him long before that little fat boy even dreamed of becoming what he was today. Tweek covered his head with the purple cloak and ran into the dark night without fear. He was used to it. Tweek left behind the two humans who would talk about things that were none of his business. The faun's hooves made noises when stepping in the mud. The rain caused an uncomfortable tingling but his skin was thick enough to bare it and it gave him enough thermal insulation. He could hear the men's feast in the distance, cutlery sounds and slams on the wooden table, the glasses of drink resting on the surface and spilled liquid, the wealth of the war. Poor men, Tweek thought. They would most likely become ground beef the next day. Many of them, at least.

He came around the tent to go to one of the chests full of salt, taking off two pieces of raw mutton. It was cold and dripping blood against Tweek's long fingers, his long dirty fingernails would be stained underneath. It was already a kind of rite. Generally, the order would be to give only one piece of raw meat to the prisoner, but Tweek always found a way to grab a smaller piece to add to the man's daily meal.

The cage was deeper into the forest, isolated among the trees, exposed to the wildlife. Tweek always approached with caution, although he wasn't afraid anymore because the man never reacted to his presence. The faun never even came to open the cage's small port; he simply pushed the piece of soft flesh between the rusty bars. Trees protected the cage a little bit from the rain, but it wasn't a very significant cover. Kenny McCormick was always sitting in the same corner, his head lying on his shoulder, his back pressing against the rigid iron bars, looking dead. If it weren't for the subtle movement of his chest going up and down, anyone would say that he was no longer alive. There was a tight leash around his neck, just like the Army's wild dogs, and a leather strap that tied his wrists together. The strap's point was to restrain him, but nobody was sure of what, because he never even moved. His blond hair, once so full of life and healthy, had now been shaved and exposed the several wounds and scars on top of his head. His face was marked by open cuts and bruises. His beard was still growing, covering some of the injured skin. The cracked lips and yellow teeth were still clearly visible, the dried blood trying to form a protective coverage over his lips' wounds, denouncing their ill appearance. Maybe those they were result of a severe fever.

The cage was large enough to hold a medium-sized hunt, probably a canine. That's what Kenny McCormick had become: a dog. Raw meat was served to him and the only water he could drink came from the rain. He had to contain the water in the same pot where he had to shit. Tweek reached down to offer him a look full of compassion every time he brought him food, which was unbearable; the faun's small eyes on the other side of the bars, that free slave, wild creature of mediocre life that stared at him with fascination, as if Kenny was the mystical animal and not the other way around. He never made eye contact with Tweek and never replied to anything that the faun said to him.

He was sitting in that crooked position for so long - days, even - that a sharp pain took over any muscle he tried to move. The wet sound of the pieces of flesh hitting cage's ground caused him discomfort. He had already thrown up too much. Cartman, little by little, plucked the life out of him.

“The King said...” Tweek whispered in secret. He looked around, terrified that someone could hear him, but they were too far away from the camp and no one cared enough to listen when he spoke. “He said they will _use_ you tomorrow. This will all be over soon.”

As usual, Kenny sat there staring at nothing. Tweek wrapped his hand around one of the cage's iron bars, approaching his face.

“Be Strong. Terrible things are about to happen.”

The blond's only answer was a sneer.

 

* * *

 

So the judgment day was born as the sun risen between Zaron's winding hills, bathing the green lands with its endless orange light.

Since it all began in a forest, it's only fair that a forest also announces the beginning of the end. The sky, which had once been the deepest blue, was now white and almost entirely covered by clouds that soon would hide the sun. The fateful morning strangely looked like a late afternoon, which matched the dominant atmosphere in the battle camp.

Terrance left his tent as soon as the birds began to sing, stretching his limbs. His hair was messy, his eyes were dark like a shark's when it feels the presence of its prey. Terrance's nostrils enlarged as he sniffed the air. He smelled blood. His heart felt tight inside his chest.

Phillip woke up alone in the tent, as he knew he would, with both arms wrapped around the Stick of truth. He emerged from the tent half naked, as if the cold couldn't reach his skin, his blond hair completely messed up as his brother's a few hours before, when he left that same nest. Phillip's bare feet touched the wet muddy grass, while he still held the Stick against his exposed chest. The object was still wrapped in an old dirty blanket that protected it from the malicious eyes of the world, but its pulsating force could still be felt in every corner of the field. That is, anyone who was awake at dawn on the judgment day.

In many different ways, Phillip resembled a crazy mother who wandered around a city in flames, protectively holding her baby. He would do anything for the delicate Stick in his arms, as if they really had a mother and son connection.

He didn't have to walk far to find Terrance. His brother remained in the same place, standing amid the field that had been burned down years ago. The soldiers would be dropping like flies in that same exact field where they stood just in a few hours. Terrance had his back to Phillip, but he knew the blond was there. Actually, he had already known it from the very moment his brother opened his eyes to wake up.

“Did you see it?” Terrance asked him, without turning around. “Did you see...?”

“They are coming to get him, Terrance. They... We must stop them. They will kill him, yes they will, I dreamed about it! They will cut off his head and chop him into a thousand pieces.” The blond brought his fist to his chest and squeezed, even though there his skin was bare and there was nothing to grab on, releasing a dramatic moan of a Shakespearean actress. “Oh Heavens, they'll throw his head at the High Elf's feet!”

Terrance remained silent. See, this does not occur very often, but every once in a while, there is a disconnect between Duo twins and they have different visions. This could only happen over a very, very important event. It always happened for a reason. Terrance then smiled. It was not a happy smile. He was just relieved that his beloved Phillip did not have the same vision as him for that long, dreadful night. He covered her mouth for a moment, trembling, feeling his eyes sting with tears that would never be shed. A tremor sob escaped from his lips. Phillip was too distracted by their mission, an easy target to be handled by what the god of fate was saving for them. Terrance let out a sigh of resignation.

If that was the desire of the gods, he would serve them willingly. As long as Phillip continued to be safe and the Stick remained protected.

 

* * *

 

Ike Broflovski's youthful eyes aimed for the small green apple that he had put on the cut trunk of a tree. His feet wore a heavy pair of ocher boots with fringes that moved against the wind and crushed leaves, as well as the damp grass while he walked away from the trunk, reaching for one of the arrows stored in the bag on his back, using his long elegant fingers. Ike placed the arrow in the bow and took aim with his hawk eyes, his pupils black as night itself. He licked his lips, feeling the breathe of the forest around him, the birds that hooted on the treetops, the hidden moles underneath soil, small yellow butterflies seeking flowers in the distance. The wind was soft enough not to get in the way of his aim. He could almost hear Stan Marsh's sweet voice, his mentor whispering in his ear for him to feel the path that the arrow would follow, so it would become an extension of his arm. " _Do not aim with your eyes_ ," Stan always said to him, " _the eyes are prone to error_." The elves were taught to aim with the soul. Ike gave in a cynical smile when he released the arrow that broke the air, fast and accurate, scraping the side of the apple in a way that scratched a piece of it.

“Shit.” Ike muttered, lowering the bow.

He was alone and drenched by pouring rain, but the thick foliage of the trees protected him enough that the rain didn't get in the way of his training. He ran his palm over the top of his head, smoothing back his thin hair, sighing deeply. The sun had barely arose, but Ike had been awake since the height of the night. He ate two peaches for breakfast and sneaked into the dense part of the forest, as he did every day since they arrived at the camp. Kyle didn't approve of it, but he was too busy solving problems that Ike had nothing to do with. Now that his brother was back, safe and sound - though he had lost thirty three pounds and was still covered in scars - the young elf could concentrate again on his training. Stan was also too busy with battle strategies, but Ike had the ability to train by himself with the sword using trees and perfecting his aim with the bow and arrow. If the time came, he wanted to help.

His sharp ears caught a movement among the trees. Ike turned immediately to find the familiar twins' familiar faces. They always walked in step with the same facial expression, which now seemed nervous and uneasy. Ike thought it to be natural. He had spent enough time with the twins to understand their sensitivity. A day like this, when blood would be spilled on the ground, should be more disturbing to Terrance and Phillip than for everyone else. They sensed everything more intensely, like animals.

“Little Prince, what are you doing here?” Phillip asked, still holding the stick wrapped in the old rag. He was bare-chested, wearing only his pants. The hem ended at his knees, exposing his thin shins and the light blonde hair that covered his legs. He didn't look cold.

“Training.”

Ike frowned at the twins' bustling attitude, grabbing each other's arm, looking around as if they were searching for something terrible like a mountain lion. Still, there was a different vibe around them. Phillip looked more insecure, tapping his barefoot in the grass, pressing his fingers in his brother's flesh, full of dreadful expectation. Terrance, however, only seemed eager for something to happen soon.

“You need to get out of here, Ike.” Terrance said in such a sober tone that Ike had never heard from him before. It gave him chills.

“I... Why? What do you see?”

“You need to disappear! Yes you do!” Phillip ignored, nodding in agreement with his brother.

“Phillip, you cannot keep walking with the Stick around there. It's dangerous.”

The blond twin let out a gasp of terror as if he hadn't taken a moment to think of the danger of being there, exposed with the object that he had sworn to protect. He pressed it against his face as if to protect it with his arms from some imaginary threat, soon to reveal to be concrete. The Stick already felt like an extension of himself, as the arrow was an extension of Ike, something so intrinsic to him that he could hardly realize he was still carrying it.

Suddenly, Phillip saw, clear as water, the two men soon to descend from one of the trees and fall with their heavy bodies on the ground, crouched and ready to stand, skilled thieves that were used with high falls, but there was a blockage in the rest of his vision. Phillip feared for a moment that it would mean his death. He would have realized that this was extremely silly if he had some time to think about it, but he did not; Craig Tucker appeared as if he had just came from heaven, landing behind Ike with the same precision with which the boy tried - and failed - to shoot his arrow. The brown woolen poncho Craig wore had been filled with air in his fall, creating a dramatic volume which ceased as soon as his feet noisily hit the ground. Craig threw his own body against Ike's back put his arm around the elf's neck to pull him violently toward his chest, bringing his other hand, covered by leather glove, holding a knife to press the tip of the blade against Ike's jaw .

' _Run, Phillip, for all that is holy in this life and the next ones_!' Terrance said to his brother without moving his lips. There was no time for anything else. Phillip would bitterly regret, until the end of his life, the bewitched protective instinct he had towards that damned Stick. A big, strong man - too bulky to be a thief - slid down the rope tied on the tree's branch and almost shook the ground when he landed on it, and threats were shouted, about how they would destroy the delicate little throat of the prince who struggled in Craig's arms. Trent, the tall blond who wore only a vest made out of some animal leather, cornered Phillip like a wild bear, his eyes soaked in thirst for Stick's chant.

“Come here, you little freak.” Trent said with a sickly smile. He was so close. So close.

Trent's sword was drawn out in a matter of milliseconds, ready to cut off Phillip empty head if he decided not to cooperate. The knife threatening Ike's fragile neck flesh paralyzed him, his immensely blue eyes wide open, full of terror, for all the sight of his dreams ran over and over again inside his brain. But it was not the right vision. In a few moments, Phillip'd wish it had been.

Trent struck Phillip's slender body with his sword, but that's not what the blade pierced. Phillip could feel the sharp edge of that sword tearing his body just as if he had been the victim of the scam, but no, he hadn't been. The horror, the tears, the desperation, all that would come later. Phillip didn't turn to see Terrance's lifeless body fall to the ground, the body of him who was his half, the one who stood between him and Trent Boyett's sword, who came into the world with him and with whom he shared all its sensitivity, half of his brain, his entire life. The sword went through Terrance's abdomen, tearing apart his vital center, emanating a horrible, wet sound. Trent struggled to pull out the bloody sword, resting his foot on Terrance body to push it back, letting him fall dead on the grass with wide black eyes still open, terrified, as if he was still repeating the mantra: " _run, Phillip , run._ "

And Phillip ran. He clung to the Stick of truth, anesthetized to its senses, as the bond of blood pulsing between him and the object were real, palpable, as if the white energy could supply what had just been brutally ripped from him. The Stick gave him strength in his legs to support his own body and keep running, dodging trees, desperately heavy breathing under the falling rain, gasping for air through his mouth, never looking back. The little prince remained there, left behind, screaming until the birds got frightened and flew away, staring at his friend who was now nothing more than a corpse.

 


	25. Land of the free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought I had abandoned this monster, didn't you? Well, guess what.

There were five men inside the king's tent. Four of them remained in complete silence. The dominant sound was already a part of them, since it had cradled their stay at that camp from the day they'd arrived. The smell of wet earth and the sound of falling rain on the leaves and tents was familiar to them, part of the environment. Under the stunning sound of the storm, there was a thin cry which sounded so much like a child, audible to all present.

  
However, it was not a child.

  
Phillip was half-naked, only his genitals protected by a torn blue tunic covered in mud, as well as his pale body huddled in the corner, almost crawling under the strategies table. He put his head was between his knees; his hands were bloodier than the rest of his skin, his hair was soaked and Phillip shivered like a puppy. The Stick, wrapped in a blanket - but partially exposed - rested on his slender thighs.

  
“Your Grace.” Stan murmured shyly, alternating his gaze between the back of Kyle's head and the man who was trembling on the ground. “Did you hear what he said?”  
  


There were still spots on the king's head where the scalp was exposed by hair loss or the tufts which had been ripped out during his captivity time. It was hard for Stan to face these spots, the marks Kyle carried in his body of what had been done to him. Kyle was already dressed in pieces worthy of his position in royalty - no one had dared to touch the king's wardrobe while he was under Cartman's possession, because no one really expected him to return anytime soon. He wore a blue-green tunic printed with baroque designs in gold, which actually belonged to Wendy, but the tunic hugged very well his frighteningly thin figure. He wore a bearskin coat over it to keep out the cold. After a shower and a long period of care with his injuries, he started to look more like himself once again. But in his dull eyes, Stan almost could not recognize him. It was painful to see him as a shadow, the still open wounds beginning to heal all over his skin, dark circles of one who had not slept in months, the sick aspect which had taken over. Kyle's face was no longer flushed.  
  


As hard as it was, Stan refused to take his eyes out of him. He felt as if, in the blink of an eye, he would disappear again. The mere thought of losing him again made the warrior's heart race.

  
The king's slender fingers, again decorated with silver rings, separated and sought support in the chair beside him. He stared at the rain through the semi-open tent door, apathetic. He shuddered when trying to take a deep breath, slowly lifting his chin. His pupils decreased. Gregory, Christophe and Stan watched expectantly, only Phillip did not seem to recognize that there were other people around.  
  


“They have Ike.” Gregory repeated soberly, almost in a cold way.  
  


“I understood.” The king replied immediately, interrupting him rudely. His voice sounded extremely tired. It was so unusual for him to use that tone, but it wasn't completely unknown by Stan and Christophe. He lowered his head slowly, his eyes falling to the ground like a dead man. He barely blinked. His red hair looked much darker than it actually was, mostly because of the darkness reigning inside the tent. Only weak candles lights illuminated the present figures. The elf closed his eyes and swallowed hard, clutching the back of the chair between his fingers with a measured force, his arm trembling from the effort. A low moan escaped his lips. “I told him... Ever since our father was murdered by that monster, I told him not to wander out alone.” Kyle took both hands to cover his face, his voice wavering, frightened, as if talking about it out loud made him absorb the reality of the situation. As he lifted his head once more, his eyes, which had so far been so dead, were now filled with hate. He turned directly to Christophe to utter the words “You told me you would take care of him.”

  


His voice was more terrified than actually accusatory. There was a crying begging to overflow, but Kyle didn't allow a single tear to stream down his moist eyes. The prosecution, anyway, caught Mole by surprise. As per usual, he remained isolated in a corner, out of the candlelight's reach, both hands behind his back. His expression softened to face the king back, almost outlining pain.  
  


“I didn't know 'e would...”  
  


“Of course you didn't, none of you did. He was probably sneaking out since I was abducted and none of you bothered to keep an eye on him.”  
  


“Your Grace, none of us wanted this to happen.” Gregory interrupted, sniffing Christophe's disturbance by the way he avoided to look directly at the king, but he also wasn't staring at the ground. The blond took a few steps forward, excruciatingly calm before the dense energy that took over the tent. “We were dealing with so much, the war kept us all alienated. No one had time to babysit the prince.”  
  


“Shut your mouth, Gregory.” Stanley snapped immediately, spitting the words with relish. He then tried to approach Kyle, who stood with his back turned to him. “For all the gods, you're...”  
  


For once in his life, Gregory obeyed. He joined his feet and cleared his throat, lowering his head a little, creating such a strong contrast from his usually arrogantly raised head position.  
Kyle disengaged his attention from the three men, looking away at nothing in particular, as if he had disconnected from what was happening around him. There was something almost insane in his faraway look, his slightly open mouth, dilated pupils in the dark, his head quickly heating up with the speed of thought. He took his hand to his chest and slowly swallowed the saliva that had accumulated in his mouth. Then, the king turned almost violently to Phillip, who was now completely under the table, clinging to its feet like a wounded animal. His face was swollen from crying and tears were rolling as he continuously sobbed, breathless. It was a low, muffled cry.  
  


It was not at Phillip the elf king was staring, but to the object in his lap.  
  


“I never wanted it to come to that...” Kyle whispered, vaguely studying the Stick with his eyes.

“I always thought we could win the war without challenging the occult. I really believed that.” There was a long moment of silence, in which the sound of the rain was soothing enough that Kyle closed his eyes for a moment and remembered his childhood, the scent of his mother's skin and the day that Ike was found inside a basket among the rocks by the river, when he was just a baby. It was Kyle and Stan who found him while playing with their wooden swords. The Queen was watching them from afar. It was one of the few times Kyle saw his mother cry, this time over the abandonment of a newborn who was destined to die in so many terrible ways if he had not been found.  
  


“What are you saying, Your Majesty?” Gregory asked, breaking him out of his trance.  
  


“We've got to use the Stick.”  
  


“Absolutely not.”  
  


Kyle frowned and looked back to Gregory like a rabid feline that finds its prey. For a moment, he did not move. He simply stared at the blond long enough so that the General realized what had come out of his mouth.  
  


“I see you've taken the reins of things in the kingdom during my absence, Gregory. Have I stayed out long enough for you to forget who your king is?”  
  


Hearing Kyle's voice so firm, so familiar to what it was before, was a relief to Stan's ears. Gregory did not dare to answer. It wasn't his nature to apologize, something that Kyle sometimes thought stupid and admired at others.

  
The king turned his attention back to Phillip, approaching his half-naked body all dirty with blood, kneeling beside him and resting his palm on the creature's bony shoulder; there was compassion in the touch. Both, after all, shared a very deep connection, a very intimate one. Both their brothers had been torn from them in the same condition, although in different ways. It was as if, when approaching Phillip, the blond's crying infected him and the king could allow his own tears to run down without even feeling it.

  
“Phillip.” He spoke close to his ear, watching as the creature shrugged and turned his face to the opposite side, shivering and cowering, as if the elf's touch had burned his skin. Kyle continued as calmly as he could. “I know you just lost your brother. But I don't want to lose mine. Please, you need to do what you were designate for. You need to use the Stick.”

The sound Phillip emitted consisted in damp, deep sniffs, as if he could hardly breathe. Only his head turned very slowly to see the elf. His lips parted, his eyes swollen, red and wet face. He looked at Kyle as if only then noticing his presence. The only thing that escaped his lips was a low moan, thin and weak. He held the Stick tighter to his chest, slipping little by little to the floor, looking away in the same slow and drunk speed. His eyes were wide with terror, as if he didn't know exactly where he was. Phillip lay in a fetal position, muttering things so low that only Kyle could hear:

  
“I won't... No, I don't... I never... No... No, I... Never again.”  
  


It was like a mantra.  
  


Kyle turned his face to Gregory in search of understanding. Stan was just behind the king as a watchdog, silent and attentive. Gregory snorted and rubbed his temples, looking impatient, but it was more of an exhausted and confused expression. There were very few moments of his life when he absolutely did not know what to do, so he wasn't used to not having control over things and lately that had become an everyday state.  
  


“They've amputated my arm.” Phillip said in a saner voice, raising his head and grabbing Kyle's arm with an uncomfortable desperate strength. “They've amputated... And they amputated my leg, gods, they amputated...” His voice suddenly died, even though he kept moving his lips, whispering breathlessly.  
  


“Your Grace.” Gregory called respectfully, folding his hands in front of body and licking his lips. “Without Terrance... I don't think he can perform magic. I don't think he's going to even function as before. Due Twins... They were telekinetically connected, you know.”  
  


The king's moist eyes turned to the General, loaded with hatred, as if Gregory was saying such things on purpose to convince him that using Stick was not a viable option, as if he lying or guilty of something. Kyle knew it was not the case; of all the flaws that could be pointed in Gregory, he was still a fiercely loyal servant. But the hurt look still plastered on his face, dominant. When he broke eye contact - that Gregory held bravely, more gently than expected - Kyle turned the side of his face and licked his lips, his delicate hand caressing Phillip's almost white hair. The creature was still crying as he clung the rich fabric of the robe the king was wearing, without shame or embarrassment.  
  


“Get out of here.” He muttered, staring into space, covering Phillip's hot forehead with his palm.  
  


Christophe was the first to move to leave the tent without saying a word, with the aggressive walk of a slaughtered animal. Gregory took two seconds longer to take a step, nodding in understanding. He then followed, much calmer, resigned. Stan walked right behind Gregory, but the king's voice interrupted him.  
  


“Not you.”  
  


The warrior turned to look at him over his shoulder, foot forward, hoping to take the next step. Gregory also paused, turning to see them, standing for a second in the tent door with a certain melancholy in his eyes. So he let them alone.

  
Well, not quite. Phillip was still there, but not completely, dragging his body to the elf king's lap, curled in a fetal position, hugging the Stick - which was now virtually all exposed without the blanket that had so far offered a false sense of protection to the object. Strangely, Kyle took Phillip in his arms with the affection of a brother. This was unusual not only for his royal status, but also because free affection with strangers was not part of Kyle's nature. Stan realized immediately that there was something extraordinary happening before his eyes and it had to do with the power emanated by the Stick, even when it was not in use. Stan felt bad simply by being in the same environment as the damn thing; he always felt a terrible tingling from head to toe, an ecstatic dizziness, as if he wasn't his own man. In contrast, he believed that the Stick only leveraged what each person carried within. In Kyle and Phillip's case, it was the desperate need to have their brothers back. This feeling united them inexplicably right before the warrior's eyes.  
  


In Stan's case, as well as everyone going through war times, being close to the Stick's energy was disturbing because there was only darkness inside.  
  


Kyle rocked Phillip in silence, only whispering "shhh" next to his ear until his crying quiet down. After a few minutes, Phillip seemed to be asleep. Stan waited patiently in that same guard position, until Kyle turned his attention back to him. Before the king's silence, he murmured shyly:  
  


“Your Grace...”  
  


“Why do you still call me that when there is no one around?” Kyle asked distantly, stroking the creature's cold cheek, still staring at his peaceful sleeping face.  
  


“You're still my king when there's no audience.” The warrior responded with a restrained voice, holding the handle of his sword, which was into the sheath, out of habit. He found it strange to see Kyle sitting on the ground, on the damp soil grass. It was very weird having to look down to talk to him. “Tell me, please, how can I help you?”  
  


Kyle shrugged his shoulder as if he was bothered by what he was hearing. He made a long cruel pause, and Stan expected to be sent away as well.  
  


“I dreamed about my mother.” The King suddenly said, licking his lips, looking at Phillip who now had his eyes half-open. “But I can not remember what she said. I think she was trying to warn me.”  
  


There was something dingy in his voice that froze Stan's spine, something that the warrior soon identified as guilt. He wanted, more than anything, to take Kyle in his arms and soothe any bad feeling, as if there were some way to absorb the king's pain to himself through skin. But he did not dare to invade the moment his king shared with Phillip. The blond was not exactly sleeping, it was more like a trance or a meditation, some enchantment between the touch of Kyle and the Stick.  
  


“There was nothing you could have done.”  
  


“I know. It seems that the vain human God acts more directly than our ancestors. Kenny told me about Him.”  
  


“I don't believe that, Your Majesty. What was done to the prince... That was the action of men. The gods don't make wars, Your Grace.”  
  


“Yeah. We do.”  
  


There was a long period of silence between the voices, so deep that even the flames burning in candles appeared to have a sound. Stan pressed his lips hesitantly, taking a step forward to support his hand on the table.  
  


“You said Kenny was the one who freed you. Kenny and his sister, is that right?”  
  


Stan was the only one to which Kyle had told exactly every single thing he had lived in Kupa Keep, even the parts that made him doubt his own sanity; He told, in the most sober way he could, how he had seen a guard opening Kenny's throat right before his eyes and then he appeared in his family's childhood home, safe and sound. Kyle'd been ashamed by the way Stan had looked compassionately concerned. But he knew that Stan would not question his story. He was one of the few forces in this world kept Kyle's feet on the ground.  
  


“Yes.” He said.  
  


“Maybe Ike's okay. If what you told me is true... If we have friends among the humans, I mean. Then maybe he's alright.” He repeated at the end, as if to convince himself of what he had said.  
  


It was the first time that night when Kyle offered a genuine smile.  
  


“Heavens, Stan. I don't know what I've done to deserve you.” Finally, the king looked up, his eyes huge like a child's, filled with water. He raised his hand, the one that so far had been caressing Phillip's face, for the warrior to take. “You know I love you, right? More than anything in this world.”  
  


Stanley took his hand with anguish, looking forward to the touch, nodding.

  


* * *

  


It wasn't the first war Kyle had faced. It certainly would not be the last. But there was something different this time about covering his body with the mantle that his father wore every time he would face his enemies, claiming it gave him luck. Gerald was an extremely superstitious man, a trait that Kyle did not inherit. He looked at the reflection in the dirty mirror as a daffodil, slowly raising his chin to the image of his own face. Christophe could be seen reflected behind him, putting on his gloves without paying attention to the movement, staring at the redhead's back. The crown was inside a dark blue velvet box, which had been carefully stored during the king's absence.

  
“Are you ready? I'll get Gregory.” Christophe said in a hoarse, low voice, almost like an animalistic growl.

  
Kyle just turned his head toward him, his face clean any expression. He ran his thumbs over the index and middle fingertips without realizing it. Finally, he came to lift the corners of his lips in such a subtle smile that it was barely there. Christophe ground his teeth in front of that figure that, despite looking so fragile, also exuded an unbelievable force. The marks on his face were proof of that.

  
“He will come.” The king finally said, turning his whole body to him. “Do you feel lucky?”

  
As expected, Christophe snorted and shrugged because it wasn't the kind of question to be answered seriously. Kyle nodded, contaminated by the same feeling. There was silence between them. The elf sighed deeply, looking away to the strategy table, which now had a rolled-up map, a candle which had burned all night, with the wax hardened by air, and the king's bow resting beside it. The only thing missing was the bag that contained the arrows carved in oak, with the coat of his clan on the back end.

  
While Kyle straightened the bag on his back and stroked the arc's body, not yet taking it in his hands, licking his lips, he muttered without making eye contact with the man:

  
“I don't blame you, Christophe. For anything that happened. You know that, don't you?”  
He was silent, with narrow eyes, something Kyle could feel without the need to look at him. The expression denounced his distrust.

  
“Ever since I freed you, all you've done was to protect my people and my family in any way you could.” The firmness in the elf's voice was anguished, but unwavering. He turned his gaze to the human and watched him with tenderness in his eyes, his breath slightly altered. “I am very grateful for it. I need you to know that.”  
  


“I know.”  
  


Kyle smiled.  
  


“Do you trust me? No one else seems to. They think I've gone mad, don't they? From being tortured, from having taken Ike away from me...” By mentioning his younger brother's name, the king's voice tuned into a held back crying. His eyes were red and moist, but no tears were shed. “But I still know what I have to do.”  
  


“I never 'ad a doubt about 'zat, Kyle.”  
  


The king slowly nodded and dropped the bow, his hand raised to cover his mouth for a moment, as if recomposing himself before the eyes of another. He sniffled softly, holding the edge of the table with force, and Christophe wished most of all to take a few steps forward and hug him, but did not move.  
  


“Good. This is very important to me.”  
  


Gregory appeared in the tent door a few moments later, his face more serious than usual, looking almost ten years older than he actually was. He also looked like he hadn't slept for a week. He was soaking wet by the rain, which made him seem much sloppier than Kyle had ever seen. Gregory was the type of man who was rarely seen with a string of hair out of place. He had been armed from head to toe and was ready to attack.  
  


The blond looked at one of them, then the other, wasting a few seconds in silence as if to see if he had interrupted something important. But Kyle rubbed his face and took the bow in his hands, presenting himself as immediately prepared for what came next.

  
“Stanley is with the men giving his final instructions. But soon he'll come to accompany you. All according to the plan, Your Majesty?”  
  


Kyle just nodded, unwilling to talk.  
  


The plan was simple, really. Avoid bloodshed as possible. That probably wouldn't be for long. Kyle didn't believe that Cartman was bluffing, but tried to keep in mind - as Gregory pointed out several times the night before the discussion - they also had something very precious and an army that had proved to be stronger and more prepared. Gregory seemed nervous at the thought of leading their men without Stanley, who was the true spirit that aroused the courage and absolute surrender of the elves. But they had all agreed that it would be better for everyone if Stan accompany the king to the place where Cartman proposed that the exchange was made. The human king referred to it as a "negotiation" in his letters, mentioning that he would be willing not to hurt anyone, as long as the elves collaborated. The spot they had agreed on meeting was not far from the battlefield, just enough to give them privacy. Cartman certainly would not be alone either, but it was one of his demands that they didn't take more than one person for security reasons. Kyle hated being forced to dance around Cartman's demands and propositions, but it was the most sensible choice after all. They went by carriage to the Gargoyle hill, around four miles from where the armies await the order from their commanders if the battle confrontation was necessary to define the end of the war. Both armies had no longer the force they had when it all began, years before, when Gerald Broflovski was still alive: they longed for the return to their common lives, their families, and they constantly thought of the fellow they had lost and would still lose. That is the cruelty of war.

  
Kyle prayed to the gods that they didn't have to lose any more men at the end of that day. But he also believed that the gods didn't offer anything without taking something in return. If the price was the life of his brother, he was not willing to pay it.

  
Inside the carriage, Phillip remained hidden with a blanket over his head, cowering in the corner with the Stick in his arms, just as he had been carrying it all the time. After Terrance's death, he'd almost completely stopped talking altogether. It was like he had forgotten how to use words. There was also some speculation about whether or not he should be taken to the place where supposedly the exchange would be made. Gregory didn't consider, at any time, that the change was indeed going to take place. But they needed to take the Stick one way or another, because its pulsating energy would be perceived by far, especially by an experienced wizard like Cartman. Finally, it was agreed that it would be better to have someone inside the carriage with the Stick rather than just leave it in there at mercy - who knows what Cartman had planned - and considering all points, Phillip had left his own brother to die because he knew he had to protect the Stick above all things. Kyle blindly trusted that he would be able to tear the flesh of a man with his teeth if they tried to take the object from his arms. He was no longer able to use magic, but he'd find much more primitive resources to fulfill his function. Taking the Stick from Phillip would be like pulling a baby from a mother's arms, and Kyle wouldn't have the heart to put another person in Phillip's place as the Stick's guardian.  
  


Cartman was already present, of course, with his bulky figure standing over his fancy red and golden chariot, two horses and a coachman. The car structure was open, different from those used in the kingdom, for leisure. This kind of chariot was specific to war, old and worn, but still extraordinary. It was large enough to accommodate a closed structure for transporting objects. Weapons in particular.

  
“Oh, look.” Cartman said proudly, projecting his voice to echo through the air, hands on his hips. Stan and Kyle approached on foot, their carriage a few meters behind them. “You look prettier like this, pixie, after the damage I've done to your face.”  
  


Standing right behind Cartman, Kyle was able to recognize Kevin McCormick's pale face that held a sickly smile, hunched and haggard. It was hard to see and hear fully under a rain so thick, bordering a storm. The thunder was loud and the wind was violent, freezing. Cartman did not look bothered by the rain, almost like he was joining it, as if he had been the one who commanded the burst of rays. He did look quite impressive up there, even if the chariot's level wasn't all that high. Kyle, in response, didn't show any kind of intimidation. Approached him even more, both feet sunk in the mud, his nobles shoes ruined, as well as the bar of his trousers and the mantle. Stan walked behind him, the arrow prepared on the bow, pointing down in readiness.

  
They were on the south coast of Zaron, close to the rocks and the sea; the aggressive sound of waves crashing on the rocks was imminent, almost surpassed the sound of water falling from the sky. On another occasion, the southern hills would be a stunning setting, even under the black sky covered in storm clouds.

  
Kyle stopped a few feet from Cartman, fists clenched, his bow in one hand, a rigid expression on his face. He did not look as young as he was. This was a result of the war; little by little it took years of one's youth.

  
“Where's my brother, Cartman?” He asked in the most stern voice that Stan had ever heard come out of his mouth.

  
“Why this rush? Your Grace has something more important to do?”

  
“That depends. If you won't give me back my brother, I have your entire army to massacre.”  
Cartman's wet face twisted into a grimace so cynical that made Kyle touch his own stomach and hold his breath for a moment without realizing it.

  
“Kyle... Please. Do not pretend that your fragile little heart takes some satisfaction out of spilled blood. It's pathetic.” Cartman spoke with all his powers of persuasion, gesturing like a true ruler who tries to fool his people with fallacies. “I know you don't want to do this, then just give me the Stick and we'll be done with it. No one needs to die. Let's settle this like gentlemen, shall we?”

  
Kyle threw a brief glance at Stanley, whose chest rose and fell with fury. The warrior's eyes met his as if asking permission to shoot an arrow right in the vital center of Cartman's large body, even if the heavy rain would considerably damage his chances of hitting the spot. He couldn't see straight, the pressure of the rain was likely to alter his sights and a confrontation would begin, which would endanger more lives than Stan could handle. So he noted Kevin. It was curious that Cartman had chosen to bring a man of one single hand, who could not fight for him if necessary. It was not possible that this possibility hadn't even crossed that arrogant bastard's mind. There should be some malicious intent in that. When Stan turned his attention to his king, he realized that the presence of Kenny's brother made Kyle's mind cloudy and confused, taken by dark thoughts. He could see in his emerald eyes how troubled he was.  
  


“Damn it, Cartman. I should have left you there bleeding to death when you were nothing more than a rejected fat boy. I felt so sorry for you. If the gods had been kind enough to give me a small, minimal glimpse of the monster that you would become...” Kyle spoke with such a repressed hatred accumulated for years, in a tone that almost scared the warrior at his side. Stan wanted to put a hand on his shoulder, but didn't.  
  


It was undeniable that Kyle's words touched some open wound deep inside Eric. There were small signs; the darkened pupils, the saliva produced inside his mouth, a subtle change in the way he was breathing. But at the point the elf had finished speaking, he could already count again with his shell of sarcasm.  
  


“I see that you still need a little help to be convinced. It's understandable.” He said with a forced laugh, snapping his fingers for Kevin, who seemed uneasy. “Help me.”

  
Promptly, Kevin and the human king went to the closed part of the carriage – when both of them started to move, Stan lifted the bow almost instantly - a small dark space from which they violently pulled Ike Broflovski out. Cartman was the one pulling him, but soon he threw the small form against Kevin, who drew his dagger from his belt and took it to the boy's neck, holding him with the arm of his amputated hand until he was able to stand on his feet. Kyle's knees buckled. He sucked the air through his mouth in a painful groan, drowned out by the sound of rain. He then took a fist in front of his mouth, showing weakness for not more than five seconds. His eyes, however, remained full of unshed tears. Stan returned to slowly lower the bow, running his tongue over his lips slowly, tasting the rain.

  
Ike wasn't wearing anything to cover the torso. His brown pants were torn at the knees. The only apparent injury was on his forehead, but the blood was already dry, the ugly brown drawing a line to his eyebrow. It was a result of the strike on his head when he had been kidnapped.

  
Under the rain, it was hard to tell whether he was crying or not. But he certainly trembled - a lot - from cold and fear. It was so hard to watch that boy who they both still saw as a child in need of protection, so exposed and terrified, under the ownership of a hideous strength like Cartman. Ike had both hands tied behind his back and wore nothing on his feet. The water had washed some of the dirt, but his face was still unclean. What mattered to Kyle's heart was that he was whole.

  
“Ike...” Kyle whispered frightened, stepping forward, his feet sinking further into the mud.  
“Wait, elf!” Cartman cried, terribly excited about the whole thing. The mere tone of his voice was like a knife going through Kyle's chest. He could not breathe. “I have a little surprise for you.”

  
Kyle didn't have the time to recover from the dagger pressed against his younger brother's neck, the boy who he was supposed to protect from all things, and then came an unimaginable picture: Kenny was pulled by the arm from the same small door which Ike had just came out from, showing no resistance, falling to his knees, half-naked, with a full beard and a shaved head, his body covered with scars and bruises, his eyes red. His head remained low until Cartman pulled him up impatiently.

  
“Get up, you worm.” He ordered, drawing his sword from its scabbard.

  
Stan was already more than sorry for not having buried his arrow in Cartman's heart, or at least tried to. Now he wore Kenny's body as a shield.

  
Kyle left his bow fall to the ground, as if he had no strength to hold it anymore. He leaned forward and covered his face with both hands, the rain bathing his back violently. Cartman laughed hysterically, like a triumphant child over the success of his little plan. Stan alternated his gaze between the kings, his arrow aimed at the ground. He stared at Kenny's hurt face, watching as the blond moved his lips as he stared right back, saying "shoot" without using sound. Stan wiped his eyes with the back of his hand holding the arrow, doubting what he had seen.

  
“You can also lower your toy now, Marsh. If you do something against me, the prince's little neck is gone.” Cartman said, more seriously, nodding toward Ike. Then, turning to the High Elf, he continued. “Give me the Stick, Kyle. You came here knowing that I had your little brother. This is all a mere...” He gestured with sword in hand, weighing, limiting this movement. “A formality. You already know that this aberration here will return, no matter how many times we get rid of him.” With his free hand, Cartman grabbed Kenny thinning hair that was just beginning to grow again. It hurt, but not enough for Kenny to would give him the satisfaction of a scream. “I don't want him to die. I do not want to lose him again, I want my toy very much alive so I can test the limits of his miserable body. Is that what you want? For him to be tortured every day because you would not give me what belongs to my people by right?”

  
“You have a lot of balls to talk about your people while they starve, Cartman.” Kenny finally said, exposing his dirty teeth stained with blood from his meals of raw meat, the only that had been fed to him as a prisoner.

  
The comment earned him a beating on the head with the handle of the sword. He didn't fall forward because Cartman was still holding his arm crudely.

  
“Shut up, you miserable. I am negotiating.”

  
Kyle seemed genuinely scared now. The tears had dried in his wide eyes, his mouth was hanging open the whole time. It made Cartman grow in confidence, chest out, pleased with the reaction we got. Kenny took a while to regain consciousness, shaking his head like a wet dog to ward off the accumulation of water in his eyelash. When he raised his face a little, he stared at Kyle for a long time, the expression full of shame. Like the look he had offered him the night he told the truth about being sent by Cartman the Elven kingdom. It felt like that had happened a million years before.

  
“Come on, Kyle. You don't need to be responsible for your little brother's death. Everything you love is in my hand, and I'm so generous that I am willing to give away two for one.”

  
“Kyle, don't!” Ike yelled, propelling his body forward so that Kevin had trouble holding him back. That caused the blade to press deeper against the skin, which made him retreat. Definitely, Ike was crying now. “Don't give this son of a bitch a thing!”

  
“You're so fucking nosy today, what is this?! Have both of you forgotten your place? You are trading currencies, shut the fuck up.”

  
Everything that happened next was very fast, much faster than can be told in words.

  
First, a thunderstorm broke through the air and lit the dark rainy afternoon skies, while Cartman went on with some ironic speech, distracted, reveling in the momentary victory of cornering Kyle against the wall. Stan frowned, being the first one to notice the presence of another person behind the unnecessarily exuberant coach. In fact, Stan took some time to realize that it was a person indeed. By cautious moves, but still wild and organic, he was sure that it was some wild animal stalking the scene. The rain also hampered his vision. It was only when man was close enough, preparing to climb into the carriage, that Stanley recognized the Mole's face, concentrated on this task. For whatever reason, he was smeared with mud all over his arms, face and hair - those were the visible parts of his body from where Stan was standing. His heart beat fast inside his chest, filled with precipitation. He prayed that Kyle didn't see him, that nothing in his facial expression could snitch Christophe approaching stealthily with a dagger behind Cartman.

  
Eventually, Kyle saw him too. More than that; They exchanged a brief eye contact while Cartman continued to use his spells of blackmail. Stan realized that his own fear had underestimated the connection between Kyle and Christophe, for the king readily read the message in his animal eyes: 'distract him'.

  
Christophe could be eerily quiet, often giving people the impression that he had emerged from absolute nothingness.

  
“Maybe... You're right, Cartman. I... I'll do anything you want. But for the love of all gods, don't hurt them.”

  
There was a lascivious glint in Cartman's eyes.  
  


“Good boy. It's okay, Kyle. Just give me the Stick and everything will be fine.”  
  


“He's fucking lying!” Ike yelled squeaky. “What's gotten into you?!”  
  


Now, Christophe was on the carriage behind Cartman, which meant that he was out of Kyle's sight. His steps were so light that not even the wood came the ranger, never provoking any noticeable movement. The dagger was firm in his hand. The rain made the mud drip down his face.  
  


“It's all right, Ike.” Kyle said with an almost tearful voice.  
  


“What prevents this fat asshole from killing us all once it he has the Stick?! Our father would never allow it!”  
  


Luckily, Cartman was too ecstatic after hearing that he would get from this confabulation what he wanted the most. Not even Ike's words were enough for him to divert the focus from Kyle, his face full of victory. But Kevin wasn't under the influence of this treat. Nor was Kenny. And that's when the younger McCormick's face turned aside instinctively, realizing the strange presence, which made the elder notice the subtle movement of his brother's head and everything changed course. When Kenny realized he should not have moved, it was too late. Those damn three centimeters would cost too much.  
  


Ike was launched forcefully forward, almost falling from the carriage. He banged his chin on the floor because he could not use his hands to land. Kevin threw his own body against Christophe with the fury of a lion attacking a zebra, knocking him violently to the floor of the carriage. The Mole hit his head hard and had no time to react before he felt the tip of a blade against his neck, squinting, waiting for the pain. But the pain did not come. It was only to keep him still, no reaction. When he separated his eyelids, panting, he felt the sting of the rain coming directly from the top now, the water coming in through his nostrils, attacking his face. Kevin was staring down at him, studying his face. He sat upon Christophe's abdomen and the first thing the Mole saw was the devilish grin of the man whose hand he had amputated. They recognized each other. There was no time for anything.  
  


“You should have taken the left one, motherfucker.” Kevin murmured, raising his only hand holding the dagger. “I'm left-handed.”  
  


Kenny only had time to shout "Kevin, no," but the guttural phrase was cut in half when the blade completely entered Christophe's chest, sending a grotesque sound of flesh being torn apart, sinking between his ribs, piercing the lung. Ike shouted, cringing in the corner. The dagger came out drenched in blood, ready for another blow, even more violent, both on the left side of his chest, as if searching for the heart that was still beating. A low murmur escaped from the Mole's cold purple lips, some French profanity, frowning his entire face in the first demonstration of pain, dropping his head back. In the third blow, Christophe shouted in a way none of them had ever heard from him before. Still breathing, but as a slaughtered animal. His mouth filled with blood.  
  


Kyle took both hands to his mouth. He was taken by the primitive instinct to scream, but there was no strength. All that came out was thin and broken, until his legs would not carry him anymore and he was knocked down in the mud to his knees, huddled into himself, lowering his head because he couldn't see anymore.  
  


“Shit.” Kenny whispered, squinting, biting the inside of his mouth. “Shit, Kevin...”  
Cartman straightened up, shaking his wide cheeks for a moment like a bulldog to pretend he wasn't stunned, pointing with his sword towards Kevin. The other arm still held Kenny's neck, firm enough to almost suffocate him.  
  


“Very good. But I don't want corpses littering my carriage. Get rid of it.”

  
Kevin got up slowly, one leg at a time, and did no more than throwing a kick so that the still living body of Christophe fell from the carriage directly to the mud, which softened the fall. Kyle immediately crawled to him, now his hands and the whole body wallowing in the soil, clinging to him desperately, pulling the Mole's weight onto his lap and leaning up on Christophe to melt in shrill tears, every sound coming out with difficulty from the bottom of his throat. Stan had to draw strength from the remotest corner of his soul not to advance on that carriage and destroy Kevin McCormick's face with his own fists, then force him to swallow the blade of his sword. The only thing that held Stan back was the shock. He could not get his legs to work, could not react, not even cry. It was absolutely unbelievable that this man who had held him in his arms when Stan was plunged into disarray, that human who was so strong, so imposing, so unshakable, it was not possible that he had fallen. He would survive. Stan clenched his fists around the bow and arrow so hard it nearly broke.

  
Stan did not realize it at the time, but he was hyperventilating at that point. When he did notice it, he was sure that the lack of air would kill him right there. It bordered a panic attack.

  
Kyle only looked up when he felt a weak hand touching his arm, sliding over the top of his back. He looked at that face, those wide hazel eyes, the dark blood which dripped from his mouth and made him cough. The king ran his hand under the Mole's head, gently lifting it up so he would not drown. He had never seen Christophe's face look more beautiful, the peaceful expression so different from the aggressive one that he always carried in his countenance. Raindrops all over his skin mingled with the mud, washing his face like a ritual. Kyle ran a hand over his cheek, wiping the mud while caressing it, lowering his face so that his forehead touched Christophe's. His chest spilled blood on the clothes and with so much dirt it was difficult to identify the extent of the injury. Kyle didn't try to do it. He was simply there, sitting with him until their hands met and fingers knitting together tight, the last gasp of life force that Christophe had to offer.  
  


“Kyle.” He called in an almost inaudible way.  
  


“Shh.” The elf swallowed, his face so wet with cold drops and hot tears. His free hand stroked the brown hair back. “Don't speak. You'll be fine.”  
  


Christophe smiled, the way he always did when he didn't want to say directly that Kyle was talking nonsense, but he was never good with subtle words. That smile made the king began to sob into tears. He could hardly keep his eyes open.  
  


He knew he could not fall apart like that. He could not disconnect from what was happening around, the two armies waiting to take each other's lives, his younger brother crying outrageously and clinging to the edge of the carriage, bound and injured, in the enemy's possession. He couldn't forget about Kenny - and heaven, how could he ever? - in that state, thin and violated, he wouldn't even reach the relief of death anytime soon, at least while he belonged to Cartman. Kyle had doubted up until that point if everything he had lived in the old house of McCormick had been real. He doubted that Kenny had been there. Everything had such a surreal texture. The Mole gasping for air, drowning in his own blood, with perforated lungs, chest open, none of that seemed real. Kyle clung to him with even more force, the little he had.  
  


“ _Ce fut un plaisir de vous servir_.” He heard Christophe whispering in his ear.  
  


“What?” The king asked, stricken, sniffling and wiping his own face, trying to keep Christophe focused and awake. He continued in a soft voice. “I can't understand you...”  
  


The Mole didn't waste any time explaining it. He raised his large, filthy palm to gently touch the elf's face, sliding it through the soft skin, staining it with mud and blood. Everything seemed to have become one single thing at that point.  
  


“Well, Kenny, would you look at that?” Cartman said casually, while another ray burst in the sky, sending a light beam over them. His voice almost made Kenny's ears bleed. It was all that none of them wanted to hear at that moment. “Maybe I chose the wrong man to have as bait. I don't think he was that fucked up when you died, what about that?”  
  


“Your Majesty.” Kevin called before his brother had a chance to answer. He had his knees bent, arms supported on both thighs, as if just recovered from a trance. He was sweating, even soaked and with the cold wind blowing against them. He didn't bother to collect Ike from the ground, pretty sure he was not going anywhere. And in fact, Ike squirmed into fetal position, unable to stand upright. Kevin waited catch his breath before continuing. He pointed to the horizon, and when Cartman looked in that direction, one of his riders approached on a black horse in fast gallops. “The army must be getting impatient, sir.”  
  


“And they should be! I'm quite impatient myself, I didn't think this shit would take so long. Kyle, pull yourself together, I don't have all day. I have a war to win.”  
  


After taking a sharp breath, the elf warrior resumed his position, swallowing any possibility of tear at that time. Christophe was still breathing, and that was the hardest part, which didn't allow Kyle to let go of him and concentrate on anything else. Ike's loud crying echoed in Stan's ear, bringing vivid memories of the night that Kyle was kidnapped, the dawn he found Christophe thrown to the ground and was sure he would not survive. It was as if he had to live all over again the dread, mixed with the smell of blood and Ike's uncontrolled screams, the slap that Christophe gave him, the devastating waves of despair when he thought he had lost Kyle forever, all tangled in one basket along with the war and the death of his comrades.  
  


It was not over. It still was not over.  
  


The horse's gallop was getting stronger. The other animals present seemed uneasy with rain. Stanley's thoughts ran so fast that he didn't know if the approach of this new figure meant danger, if he should be pointing his arrow or his sword to anyone who tried to stop the moment unfolding before his eyes, Kyle pleading softly for Christophe not to give up, for him to hold on, though he had completely given in already.  
  


The rider who came down from the horse wore a full armor, covered from head to toe, his helm closed. The coat of Kupa Keep was just one of those excessively rich and arrogant symbols that the elves could not understand, but the fact was those arms were in every uniform of every human of the royal guard and their objects as well. The knight bowed to his king, greeting him as "Highness", but the helmet muffled the word as much as the sound of rain.  
  


“I bring a message, my Lord.”  
  


“Oh, that's good. At least they sent someone who is not completely useless.” He said, driving away quickly to Kevin. “Someone who has two functional hands and knows how to use a sword. Come closer. I am in the middle of something important here.”

  
Cartman snorted with no patience. He put his arm under Kenny's to pull him tightly against his chest, his hand on the blond's neck - full of purple bruises greenish at the ends - to squeeze it tightly as to make Kenny coughed for air. The rain, when falling on the rider's metal armor, produced an even more thunderous sound, almost deafening. He continued:  
  


“Alright, listen. I don't have time for such frills. You got lucky it wasn't your precious brother's throat, you were supposed to be crying over his corpse now.” The king pointed the weapon toward Ike, who now had his head lifted and stared at him with wide eyes. “But I'll give you one more chance. I hope you've learn your lesson. I wonder if it would be more unbearable for you to lose a family member or the man you love. Give me that shit that fucking Stick right now, Kyle.”

  
But the High Elf didn't even seem to hear a word as Christophe stopped breathing in his arms. His eyes were still open. Kyle kept staring at him.  
  


“Our Army is stronger!” Stan cried in the rain, releasing the bow and arrow to the ground with full force, pulling his own helm out his head, throwing it to the soil. His throat throbbed. The rain bathed his hair, vigorously running down his face. “This is a lost war and you know it, Cartman! You will not win shit by taking anyone else's lives, we will not give you the Sitck, we're not giving you any fucking thing! You can give the your men the order to attack. We will fucking fight you.”  
  


“Shut up, Marsh! Just because you're always sucking on forest critters' royalty doesn't mean you're the boss of anything.” Cartman spoke, spitting like a mad man now, and everyone could feel the reason: the power that emanated from the Stick could almost be heard, literally heard, as something physical and pulsating, music too loud to ignore. That was the intoxicating him little by little. He rattled Kenny's body as he screamed, voracious and aggressive, like he was a rag doll. He looked a lot like an unsatisfied child, at least in Stan's eyes. “You are exactly where you belong, Kyle. In the mud. You're not even fit to be the king of the flies. Give it up, you little shit, you can't save anyone.”  
  


None of them had realized in the meantime that the rider climbed into the carriage; his armor produced a metal noise when he walked. He stood behind the king on guard, even though Cartman acted as if he had forgotten the was even there. Kevin McCormick was the only one who paid some attention to the big picture, staring at the bandaged stump where his hand used to be when he was still a whole man. He raised his head slowly, his tangled fringe falling over the eyes, protecting them a little from the storm. The thunder seemed even more frequent and stronger, as if the ground tremble with every burst in the sky. Kevin slowly lifted his chin, his mouth half open, looking up. The sky overhead was immense, infinite, overcome by darkness. He turned the side of his face, his eyes having a hard time to focus on anything. He knew there were screams all around, Stanley drawing his sword and approaching the carriage, Cartman knocking Kenny's body on the wooden floor and kicking him as he gestured with his hand, but Kevin did not hear anything they were saying.  
  


Suddenly his eyes met Kenny's, which were amazingly blue. And Kevin felt ashamed. His breathing was shaky, erratic. Kenny stared back with closed lips in a straight line, as if he felt a bitter taste in his mouth. He shook his head slightly, powerless to lift it altogether.  
Ike was hiding his head between his thighs at that point, huddled in a little ball in the corner, praying so that it all came to an end - any end - soon.  
  


Cartman held the handle of his sword with both hands, as if ready to strike Kenny's body at his feet. To hell with immortality, to hell with negotiations. To the human king's ears, the Stick was requiring a blood sacrifice.  
  


Kyle put a light hand on Christophe's face, now completely clean by the rain, the cold and rough texture of his skin contrasting with the warmth of the elf's palm. He slid his fingers slowly to close Christophe's eyes for the last time. The storm fell so eagerly on their bodies that it could swallow all of them them at any time, and then the conflicts of men would not matter anymore.  
  


Until everything stopped.  
  


The only one who could really see the source of the event was Kevin McCormick. What everyone else heard was a guttural groan, weak and desperate, while the human king's eyes filled with terror. And a gleaming blade stained red, long and sharp, coming out of his guts, right in the middle of the stomach. The sword had broken all the viscera, tearing the flesh from the back to come across, filthy honeydew thick blood that would soon also be washed away by the eternal rain. Stan dropped his sword to the ground and raised his head slowly, his eyes wide, fixed on Eric Cartman's face. He had never seen anyone so terrified in his life, even with all the years he had spent among war and death. Kenny crawled with difficulty to get close to Ike, both hands still tied, covering the young boy's body with his own as if to protect him from the horrible scene. The rider standing behind Cartman had trouble pulling the sword back to remove it from his large body, using his foot to propel him forward so that the semi-living body of Eric fall down from the carriage, impacting so hard against the ground that it came to shake it. He fell alongside Christophe, who laid dead on the High Elf's arms. Kyle hadn't seen the blow being delivered, hadn't seen the fall, the only thing he did see was Cartman's frightened pale face writhing, his eyes which had the color of honey so alive and open, begging for help right beside him. He couldn't say a word at this point, but his fat hand twisted the fingers in a sick way and he used his last power breath to lift it in Kyle's direction, scratching the ground, soiling his hand in the mud. His whole body was now immersed in the mixture of grass and clay.  
  


The knight gently ran his finger over the sword's blade to superficially clean the blood before storing it in its sheath. Cartman grunted down and vomited blood, which also came out of his nose, smearing his chin and jaw. The rider removed his helm with both hands, revealing the stern face of Marjorine, now shorthaired and wearing no makeup on her face.  
  


“Butters.” Kenny muttered incredulously.  
  


“How many times do I have to tell you, Eric?” Marjorine spoke with a surprisingly gentle tone. “Don't fuck with my brothers.”  
  


Not many agonizing minutes passed until Cartman was taken away, and there was no one willing to close his eyes. Kyle watched it as if it was all a dream: as if he had died on that same spot, along with Christophe, and now he had entered this murky area which projected an abandoned reality. But it was real. He could not move. The tips of his fingers remained sunk in Christophe's flesh, which stiffened as the heat left his body completely. The skies,0 as if by miracle, began to hold the rain. Little by little, the intensity of the drops decreased and there was no thunder anymore.

  
Marjorine shook her short and wet hair, which seemed even more golden now, and then hastened to take the dagger on the floor - the same one which had stolen Christophe's life – to cut the ties holding Kenny's hands. The man still stared in perplexity, taking a while to understand that she was really there. He was taken by the same feeling as Kyle, the same as Stan and Ike and Kevin also shared. It was all too fast for the brain to process. But when his sister pulled him vigorously for such a tight embrace that ached his injured ribs, Kenny knew she was real.

  
“It's over.” She whispered in his ear, hugging him at the carriage's floor, kissing just below his ear multiple times. “It's over, Kenny.”

  
Stan, meanwhile, approached Kyle almost crawling too, powerless to stand up, his muscles trembling from the adrenaline still running through his body. He hid his face in Kyle's neck and hugged him tightly from behind, which caused the king to overflow again and to start crying, wincing in himself, laying his head on Christophe's chest, staining his own face with blood without realizing it. Stan rested a hand on the Frenchman's cold forehead, caressing his hair while the other arm held Kyle's body near him as much as it was physically possible.

  
When she let go of Kenny, Marjorine ran a thumb across his wounded cheek and offered a rueful smile. It was no longer raining. She turned her gaze to Ike, who hadn't yet recognized her as the princess. The boy stared back frightened in the corner, in an awkward position. She didn't look like a man, even though she was dressed like one. She approached the prince while holding the dagger in the kindest way possible, but he flinched, hiding his face between his legs. It was Kenny who took the dagger from her hand to release Ike's hands. He patted his shoulder, kissed the top of his head and repeated the same word that his sister had told him:

  
“It's over, Ike. It's all right.”

  
Now, he really believed that.

  
Ike nodded, still shaking and unable to close his lips, barely blinking. The cold was almost unbearable, but his body was boiling inside. He turned his gaze to his brother, who was still on the the ground hugging the Mole's body and collected in Stan's arms. When he realized he was being stared at, Kyle looked up at him, tears streaming of relief and grief. He laid Christophe's heavy head very carefully on the soil, finally letting go of him. That body wasn't Christophe anymore. Stan got up, covering his face with both hands. Ike landed on the floor, almost leading to a fall from the carriage, throwing himself to Kyle arms in the mud, holding him desperately like he had so far believed he was never going to be able do it again.

And there was Kevin McCormick left, still standing on the carriage, gasping for air, swallowing hard as he turned his eyes from one side to another. It was hard to read his face. He didn't seem to be afraid nor relieved. He didn't look happy or sad. There was no sense of defeat or victory. When Marjorine started to say something to him, Stanley took his own sword on the floor moved toward him like an animal, trotting, grabbing the wreck of Kevin's shirt to pull him off the carriage, throwing him to the ground on his back. The fall caused him to shrink his members and suck the air through his mouth.

  
“Stan, No! No, no, no!” Kenny shouted.  
  


“You fucking son of a bitch!” Stan said through his teeth, his eyes filled with tears. He didn't even had time to raise his sword before Kenny jumped up behind him and grabbed him, holding his arms. Kenny had spent a long time without eating and leaving a cage. Even before that, he had been a prisoner in the kingdom of Kupa Keep and the kingdom of elves before that. His body was not strong enough to hold back a trained warrior's fury, a man who had muscles worked as a slaughter machine.  
  


“Stan, please!' Marjorine said in a pained tone, jumping from car dangerously close to Cartman's lifeless body. “Kyle! Do something!”  
  


Kyle's green eyes looked so empty that Marjorine's stomach rolled on itself, as if she knew they couldn't count on any response from him at that moment. The elf's small face was swollen and red, his nose sniffling, his eyes wet with hot tears in contrast to the skin so icy by the rain. Slowly, Kyle stood up, rubbing his hand on the top of Ike's head. Kevin covered his face with his mutilated arm while Kenny fought hard to hold back Stan's hand, clutching the hilt of his sword as if his life depended on it.  
  


“Stanley.” Kyle said simply, apathetic, looking at him sideways.  
  


That was enough to paralyze him and the dissatisfaction in the warrior's face became visible as he squinted and lowered the sword, beating Kenny back with his elbow in order to be released. The blond allowed, giving a drunken step back. It was as if the High Elf's words had some kind of spell on him. Kevin was crying now, biting his own wrist. They didn't know if whether for relief or dread.  
  


“He killed the Mole.” Stan whispered, so hurt and angry, struggling to keep his voice under control.  
  


“I know that.” Kyle licked his lips, tears slowly rolling down flushed cheeks. His voice was still hoarse of crying. “Too much blood has already been shed. Please...”  
  


The elves carriage door opened a few feet from them. Without the rain's loud noise, they could hear the creaking. One leg, barefoot and very white skin appeared. Then another. Phillip put his feet in the most sober way he had done since Terrance died. His feet sank into the mud, but his steps were still light as the fairies from the Grove. The Stick was not wrapped on anything: it rested nude against Phillip's skin, pressed against his chest, held firmly in the wizard's both hands. As soon as he began to approach, a ray of light fell through the clouds, bathing them with its warmth. Ike looked up slowly, his mouth half open, watching the clouds slowly moving away from each other. Kevin sat still like a cornered animal, breathing heavily. But Stan put the sword back into the sheath and swallowed hard, focused on Phillip.  
  


The little wizard passed by everyone who was present, keeping his huge blue eyes locked on Marjorine's figure. She turned her face aside, subtly licking her bulky lips and sucking air through her mouth in a surprised gasp as Phillip knelt before her, between the two lifeless bodies, lowering his head and raising the Stick in both hands, offering it to her.

  
“The Stick tells me that now I can give it back to its real mother.” Phillip said in a timid low voice.

  
Marjorine offered the High Elf a questioning glance. Kyle pulled Ike under the protection of his arm and pressed his brother's head against chest, stroking his black hair. The elf supported her with his eyes, nodding.

  
“Kyle.” Stan said in hesitation, but not convincing, because he was under a phlegmatic energy that tamed the breath of all of them.

  
But Kyle simply bowed.  
  


“Long live the Queen.”

  


* * *

  


Christophe DeLorme was buried in the Elven kingdom's cemetery, his true home. Marjorine knew that he was a human raised in Kupa Keep, so she offered to look for his family for the funeral ceremonies, maybe bury him with his relatives, but Kyle promptly refused. Christophe had always told him that his family were the elves, at least in the rough way he knew how to talk about this kind of thing. Therefore he received the burial rituals of his people, the people who accepted him as one of their own.

  
The cemetery was by the lake, which was particularly blue that morning and reflecting the sun's rays like a mirror. Stan cried silently as Gregory and Wendy sang human songs which the Mole had great appreciation for (it was the only thing that could actually bring him to tears, and that was only when he drank). There were not many people who attended the ceremony, but for different reasons than one would imagine; the elven people treated him as a true hero. Regicide was a very serious crime in Zaron, regardless of who you were. Everyone who had been there when Cartman was slaughtered agreed to change the story a bit to protect Marjorine; they told people that Christophe took Cartman's life and Kevin murdered him for it. Even though the Mole had been an extremely reserved man who grunted for most people, after his death he was worshiped in the Elven kingdom and the day of his funeral was a day of pain. The ceremony itself, however, was closed. He never liked crowds.

  
Marjorine was present, arm in arm with Baahir who held her tight as she wept. Even the crying made her beautiful. She was properly dressed, but not as a princess. Her dress wasn't one of hers overly voluminous skirts, it had some discrete frilly lace details in the sleeves and cleavage, and the bottom looked like a painting of several flowers in red and green, small and delicate, blending so well with the fabric's black background. The fancy crown of Kupa Keep, studded diamond, made her even more beautiful. Her people received her with open arms after the news of the tyrant's death had spread, because she had always been the link that held the Kingdom of Kupa Keep from a rebellion that would take the head of the monarchs. Craig, Trent, the whole army of brute men were bowed before her. Keep Kupa did not cry the death of their king.

  
Henrietta also wore black that day, a beautiful long sleeved dress with ruffles on the edge, but the cleavage was white with buttons and a spleen around the neck. The volume of her belly was still low-key, as she was a large woman, but those who knew the truth could recognize the glow of pregnancy from quite a distance. She cried the entire ceremony and also made mockery of her own hyper-sensitivity, while wearing a black handkerchief to clean the smudged eye makeup. Token put a hand on her shoulder at one point, as she stared at the grave that held Christophe DeLorne's name, and offered a fatherly smile.

  
“I don't know how I will raise two children by myself, Token. I don't know how I will raise an elf great enough to do justice to this man's name.”

  
“You're not alone.” He said, hugging her.

  
Surprisingly, Kyle did not cry at the funeral. He was pretty quiet, both hands clasped in front of his body. Ike remained inconsolable, which was actually good for Stan, who was responsible for taking care of him and ended up distracted from his own mourning, keeping it together. Kyle watched them from afar, isolated near his parents' grave. After all, he had on his chest a portion of relief for not adding another Broflovski to those graves. He still wondered what would have happened if Christophe hadn't been so unbearably stubborn to follow them on horseback against the king's orders that he was not yet strong enough to confront anyone. He also wondered if Christophe would have died if he hadn't been weaker than his normal self.

  
At one point, Kyle's eyes crossed with Baahir's and the man offered him a sincere smile. The king's heart was filled with gratitude.

  
“Are you alright?” He heard Kenny's familiar voice behind him. When he turned around, Kenny was closer than expected.

  
Seeing that scarred face melted every thought and every sorrow that had accumulated in Kyle's heart. Under the sunlight, alive and a little fatter than the last time they met, Kyle could not believe that Kenneth McCormick was still there, standing, after watching him die right before his eyes, after holding his dead body and smearing himself in Kenny's blood just as he did with Christophe. Kyle's eyes filled with tears, but he disguised them with a genuine smile, only allowing himself to be embraced by Kenny's thin warm (and very much alive) body, hiding his face in his bony shoulder, squeezing him in his arms as if he feared that the man could disappear at anytime.

  
“I'm so sorry” The blond whispered against his red curls, taking a caring hand to the elf's nape.

  
He felt responsible for what had happened to Christophe, in a way. Even if Kenny hadn't been the one who directly took his life, he was also responsible for the monster Kevin had become. The did it by letting the elves take Kevin as a prisoner, and therefore making Christophe amputate his hand, instead of protecting him. He was responsible for agreeing to be an infiltrated for Cartman in the first place, for what came to be of Pip, Henrietta's husband, Mint-berry, for everything. There was a limited amount of times that Kenny would have to die to absolve himself from the guilt. However, Kyle still allowed his brother to live to decide what to do with him – Kevin was properly locked in Kupa Keep for now - and still raised those immense green eyes to look at Kenny with something was very similar to admiration. Kenny did not feel worthy of it at all.

  
Kyle stood on tiptoe, pressing his lips against the blond's, feeling the wounded texture, which was soft at the same time, comfortable, warm and humid. He kissed him without using tongue, hugged his neck, eyes closed. Much of his weight leaned against Kenny.  
  


“Stay here with me.” Kyle whispered in need, without interrupting the kiss. There was nothing lewd about that touch. He slid his hand down to Kenny's chest, pressing his fingertips into his flesh under the bulk fabric of his shirt. “The war is over. You don't have to go back.”  
  


“Your people still see me as a traitor.”  
  


The elf took both hands to the back of his head, running his fingers through the blond hair, brushing his nose slowly against Kenny's, who lowered his face enough to rest his forehead against Kyle's.  
  


“There is nothing that time won't heal, Kenny.”  
  


The human smiled, for he could finally see some future perspective, a hopeful phrase, some light after spending so much time living as an animal - if not worse - and believing that he'd never feel that soft touch again. He reached for Kyle's small hand and laced their fingers together, spending a few moments just brushing his lips over the elf's, never breaking the smile. He allowed himself to feel a little happiness in the rubble of war.  
  


“I'll follow you wherever you go, my king.”

 

The End

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how to thank you guys. This story is probably absurdly full of English mistakes and typos. Native English speakers probably cringed along the way and I'm very sorry about that, but I'm also glad that my insecurities didn't keep me from sharing this story with you. Thank you so much for staying with me all this way, I'm so sorry for the long hiatus and everything. I hope the end hasn't disappointed too many people! Please, tell me what you think about it.


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